


falling in limbo (catch me if you care)

by blue_slate, Little_Ditty



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant most of the time, F/F, Minor Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn, Read the tags guys, anyway welcome to Raelle's experiences in Gay Panic, meaning that oc and raelle are endgame, yo why do I do this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 47,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_slate/pseuds/blue_slate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ditty/pseuds/Little_Ditty
Summary: Cadets always say that basic training at Fort Salem could kill you, but that's nothing to someone who's died before. Ceres Rosethorn isn't the basic, run-of-the-mill witch, and she's back from the dead, ready to take Fort Salem by storm (and fury). The storm she brings is strong enough to shake up the entire leadership of Fort Salem, until Ceres meets Raelle, a fixer with untold powers of her own.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Original Character, Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 32
Kudos: 108





	1. back from death's hold

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone!! welcome!! this book is mostly canon compliant, as it sticks to the timeline of mfs season 1, but with major changes. I hope you all enjoy the first chapter, and don't forget to leaves kudos and comments!
> 
> big shoutout to my co-author/editor jess for making this look so pretty!

Sarah Alder has been alive for three hundred years. In three centuries, she has seen countless deaths, dozens of wars, and thousands of lives saved. It makes her proud to know that she has served her country so faithfully. Millions upon millions know her name, and admire her as General.

But even the General has her skeletons. 

And she’s staring right at one. 

“Ceres?” Alder whispers, just barely heard by her biddies, who begin clicking their tongues at a rapid pace. Ceres merely glances at them, looking bored, before her eyes meet Alder’s. The uniform in Alder’s hands— following tradition that the General presents the uniforms to the incoming cadets— feels rotten. 

It can’t be. 

Ceres died. 

Yet, there she is, standing in front of her, a reminder of a colossal failure she’s spent years covering up. Alder shifts her stance, wondering how Ceres is alive and walking. A weakling she got rid of a decade ago is smiling at her, as if nothing ever happened. Older and stronger, broad shoulders contained by a jacket and brown hair running messily down her shoulders. 

And for a moment, Alder thinks that Ceres looks just like him. 

Part of her wants to windstrike Ceres into the wall. But that would be giving in. That would be letting Ceres  _ win.  _

So Alder can’t falter. She can’t afford to look weak in front of the weakling that brought shame to her. Alder’s gaze hardens as Ceres strides up the podium, dirty boots scuffing the polished floor and an easy smile on her face, like seeing Alder is absolutely no big deal at all. Alder hates it. She hates that Ceres looks more poised than her. 

Ceres holds out her hands, and Alder deposits the uniform into the new cadets hands. Then, Ceres is offering her hand for a handshake. Another damned tradition that Alder curses for ever existing.

She can’t give in. 

Alder steels her focus, willing her cauldron of power to simmer, before taking Ceres’s hand. 

A feeling as cold as the arctic tundra hits Alder’s mind, and Ceres’s hand is deathly cold. Screams of terror and horror are dredged up from the darkest depths of Alder’s mind, and for a moment, Alder sees her sister, swinging from the rope. Alder inhales, and slams her mental walls up higher pushing and shoving Ceres out with every single ounce of power she has at her disposal. 

Ceres remains unfazed. 

_ I expect you’ll make the proper accommodations for me, Sarah, _ Ceres’s voice is the ghost of a wind in Alder’s mind, and Alder has to bite her tongue to keep a shriek at bay. The biddies hiss in unison, eyes squinting at Ceres, who doesn’t even seem to notice. That is, until,  _ And do keep your crones away. I can already feel their souls just waiting to go. _

Alder snaps her hand away from Ceres, and when she looks at her own palm, it’s stained black. The handprint sinks into Alder’s skin, disappearing quickly, and Ceres blinks at her. Alder bristles at the hard gaze that reminds her so much of herself. 

“Welcome to Fort Salem, cadet,” Alder grits out. Ceres nods, and steps to the side, 

allowing the next recruit to go forth. A redhead, sprightly and happy to be there, that Alder doesn’t pay much attention to because her mind is still reeling over Ceres. 

Alder has taken care to keep all of her skeletons buried deep away. She never anticipated one coming back to life. That’s not what skeletons are meant to do. They’re meant to  _ rot _ and to  _ fester _ beneath the earth until the ground eats them whole and—

She inhales. Control slips back into her grasp as she shakes the hand of the next new recruit. 

And once Alder’s greeted them all, and they’ve gone to the main grounds, Alder turns to Izadora, standing behind her. The Necro specialist has a terrified look on her face, and she has every right to be afraid; Alder is rearing her angry head, furious enough to spit nails. 

“You  _ told _ me it was taken care of,” Alder hisses, and Izadora swallows. Alder grunts, turning away and walking back towards her office. 

Seems like Alder needs to see to it herself that Ceres is properly taken care of. 

~~~~~

_ Anacostia _

Anacostia Quartermaine prides herself on being able to keep her cadets in line, year after year, and push them through basic. This year is no different, though the looming threat has prompted General Alder to shorten the training and accelerate the cadets faster, either to ship off more soldiers to the front lines or to get more into War College. 

And it’s up to Anacostia to ensure that these cadets know what they’re facing. 

“Ladies!” She shouts, her voice demanding respect. Heads snap to her, and they all stand to attention. Most of them; Anacostia eyes a blonde with braids on one side of her hand lounging on a couch. “The name is Anacostia Quartermaine. I am your drill sergeant, and in charge of your wellbeing and your training. You have already been pre-assigned to your units and your rooms. Get to know your fellow unit members, because you come to depend on them.” 

Anacostia’s eyes scan around the room of girls, wide-eyed and terrified, until they come to rest on one figure leaning against a bookcase in the back of the room. Casual and unbothered, the girl looks familiar. Brown hair tied back in a haphazard ponytail, and a sharp bone structure that turns to meet her gaze. 

A tight smile is on the girl’s face. 

“You’re dismissed to your rooms,” Anacostia says, barely managing to maintain the strength of her voice when all she wants to do is shove everyone aside and go to  _ her.  _ When none of the cadets have moved, Anacostia snaps. “Now!” 

Everyone jostles at the tone of her voice, and Anacostia folds her arms behind her back, watching as the new cadets move out of the room, and soon, it’s simply Anacostia and the girl. 

“You have a death wish, don’t you?” Anacostia says, her voice quavering. 

Ceres pushes herself off the bookcase, walking over with a thoughtful look on her face. She’s already donned her Fort Salem fatigues; a t-shirt tucked into cargo pants, and boots laced tightly. The patch seems like poison to Anacostia’s eyes. Ceres moves to walk past Anacostia, but she places her hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. 

_ I’ve already died once. What’s the harm in dying again? _ Ceres says to Anacostia, but her mouth doesn’t move. Anacostia hears Ceres’s voice in her mind, cold and stronger than anything she’s ever felt. Anacostia inhales sharply, pressing her lips into a straight line. Ceres looks at her like she can straight through Anacostia’s mind.  _ For what it’s worth, Costia, you should’ve seen Alder’s face.  _

Anacostia exhales, the air tight in her chest. Ceres draws her hand back, and Anacostia sends a gust of wind to the open door. The moment the door shuts, Anacostia is snapping her gaze back to Ceres. 

“Alder will kill you the moment she gets you alone, Ceres,” Anacostia hisses, and Ceres grins, shaking her head. Ceres takes hold of Anacostia’s arm, hands feeling colder than a human’s should be. 

_ I’m not the same scared eight year old you remember from a decade ago, Costia, _ Ceres says, pressing a hand to her chest, as if she was actually talking with her mouth instead of the telepathic link. Anacostia is shocked. Ceres tilts her head to the side, and points a finger at Anacostia, brows cocking,  _ And it’s Ceres Rosethorn, now, hm? I’m just a simple witch.  _

“Simple is an understatement,” Anacostia says, and Ceres huffs— her version of laughing. “You won’t get far without a voice. You know that better than anyone.” 

Ceres’s teeth are sharp when she smiles, and there’s an otherworldly look in her eyes. Her hand is tight on Anacostia’s forearm.  _ You’d be surprised what I’ve learned in ten years. Have faith, Costia. _

“Says the one who came back from the dead.” 

_ Death isn’t permanent. It’s Limbo you should be afraid of. Oh, and I have to thank you for rescuing me, like a proper knight in shining armor,  _ Ceres says. 

“You didn’t deserve to be picked apart, not after what you went through,” Anacostia whispers. Ceres exhales sharply, a smile still on her face. 

_ And to this day, I respect you for that, _ Ceres replies. She breaks their bond by pulling her hand off Anacostia’s forearm. 

Ceres walks away, a casualness in her posture that sends Anacostia reeling. 

“Ceres,” Anacostia says, prompting Ceres to stop, and glance back. Anacostia’s jaw flexes, and she speaks slowly, “I’m glad to see you safe.” 

Ceres winks at Anacostia, then strides out of the room. 

Anacostia pulls back the sleeve of her jacket, and on her skin, a black handprint rapidly fades, until it’s gone, like it was never there at all. She inhales shakily, and walks quickly out of the room. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

“Who’s the freakshow?” Abigail asks, mouth full of cereal. 

“Do you have to pick on everyone you see?” Raelle asks, but she doesn’t even know why she bothers, at this point. Raelle sees Abigail Bellweather as just that— stuck-up, arrogant, and quite frankly, a dick. It’s not hatred, more annoyance. Doesn’t matter; Raelle will be dead in a few months, if she’s lucky.

Abigail just shrugs, and Tally bites on her bottom lip. 

“Guys,” Tally says, her voice hushed, as if she were at a library and not the mess hall. “What if she’s part of Project Charon?” 

Abigail chokes on her cereal, and Raelle revels in it. Nothing quite like seeing the Queen Bee get knocked down a peg by dry food. 

“Project Charon? The one thing that every Fort Salem witch guide says  _ not _ to talk about?” Abigail hisses, tossing a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. Raelle’s eyebrows bunch together. 

“The fuck’s gotten into your underwear?” Raelle leans back in her chair, and she looks over her shoulder. 

The ‘freakshow’ in question is eating a bowl of hearty cereal, in her Fort Salem fatigues and her hair tied back in a braid that looks remarkably similar to a one General Alder. Raelle hums, then turns back to Tally and Abigail. 

“Also, Project Karen? What, does she want to talk to the manager?” Raelle says, snark dripping from her voice, and Abigail kicks her leg under the table. “Fuck, ow!” 

“Shut up, shitbird,” Abigail whispers, eyes wide. 

“Project  _ Charon _ , not Karen,” Tally corrects. “You know, like the ferryman in Greek mythology?” 

“Dude, I’m blanking,” Raelle responds. Her repository of information only consists of curses and insults, not… whatever the fuck a Charon is. 

“Doesn’t matter. Project Charon is one of the biggest rumors flying around this place,” Tally explains, leaning close and keeping her voice low. “An old friend of mine from the Matrifocal Allotment said it was all they could talk about during basic her year.” 

“Yeah, so, what is it?” Raelle prods, wanting to cut to the chase before her cereal turns mushy. 

“The rumor was that Project Charon was about taking a witch and making her a personal battery for Alder’s own powers,” Tally says, and Raelle’s eyes widen. “Alder cuts down anyone who says anything about it, and nobody’s ever been able to prove it.” 

“You forgot the worst part. The witch in question couldn’t talk. No vocal cords,” Abigail adds. “Probably because Alder’s biddies cut them out.” 

Tally slaps Abigail’s hand. “Stop it! You’re scaring Raelle!” 

“I’m— I’m not scared, I’m just not believing any of this bullshit you’re telling me,” Raelle retorts, shifting and sitting straighter in her chair. 

“Yeah? If it’s not true then why does  _ freakshow _ over there have a scar on her throat?” Abigail says back, never one to not bite the bait. 

Raelle rolls her eyes, and turns around. The witch’s head is cast down, focused on her bowl of cereal, and Raelle almost turns back around to try and push Abigail off her high horse. But she doesn’t, because the witch looks up at her. 

And sure enough, a scar on her neck. Vertical on the midline of her throat is the scar Abigail mentioned, thin and definitely caused by a knife— Raelle knows her scars better than anyone in this room. 

“And have we heard her talk once? Or go to vocal training?” Tally asks. She fidgets in her chair. “She was in front of me when we were getting our uniforms from General Alder. And guys, Alder looked  _ freaked _ out when she saw her.” 

“So what? Proves nothing. Maybe she just doesn’t talk, and Necros don’t do vocal training with us,” Raelle says, that one tidbit of information from Scylla coming in handy. Raelle picks up her bowl and stands up. “Whatever. I’m taking a walk. You two can have your weird wet dreams over Project Charon without me.” 

Raelle stalks away, dumping the remains of her soggy cereal into the trash bin and stacking the bowl on the counter next to it. She might hate this place, but she has the decency to practice good manners. On occasion. 

Raelle sees Scylla walk by in the corridor, and she follows. 

  
  



	2. marks of the whip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raelle goes toe to toe with the Fort's resident enigma, and afterwards, learns more about the rumors surrounding Project Charon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the amazing comments and love on the first chapter!  
> as always, this chapter has been edited and corrected by my amazing co-author, jess!   
> enjoy, and don't forget to leave a kudos!

“Listen up cadets!” Anacostia’s voice booms in the training room, all of the units broken off in their own groups. Of course, minus Ceres Rosethorn, standing alone in the corner with a bored look on her face. “We have been training with the scourge on dummies for some time, but your enemies won’t be standing still in battle! They will be throwing everything they've got at you, and it’s up to me to teach you to keep yourself moving as you fight!”

Raelle has heard this speech maybe, oh, a dozen times? For fuck’s sake, just let her whip Bellweather onto the mat already. 

“You’ll be fighting in pairs today! Some of you will be facing cadets from other units. We will go one at a time! This is your opportunity to show me what you’ve learned! Make me proud,” Anacostia shouts, walking across the mat with an authority earned from years of dedicated training and experience. “First up! Let’s see…” 

Anacostia trails off, eyes scanning about the room. Raelle crosses her arms, wondering if and how she can slip out of here. Briefly, she thinks about what Scylla’s doing right now, if she’s in her dorm or out and about on Fort Salem. 

“Collar!” 

Raelle blinks, and looks at Anacostia. The sergeant jerks her head to the mat, and Raelle sighs, unfurling her scourge and stepping forward. So much for getting out of here. 

“And… Rosethorn!” Anacostia says. Raelle blinks, watching as Ceres steps forward, a smile on her face and her scourge holstered on her hip. Ceres comes to stand in front of Raelle, with Anacostia between them. 

And in the lighting of the training room, Raelle’s eyes rake over Ceres’s bare arms. Like patchwork, faint bruises make outlines of palm prints all over, from her wrist to her shoulders, the tank top hiding little in terms of muscle and skin. The Salem medallion hangs around Ceres neck, and the vertical scar on her neck seems more prominent, like it’s demanding attention from Raelle. 

Raelle has little time to wonder what the fuck is up with Ceres and her skin, because Anacostia is yelling  _ right _ next to her ear. 

“No lethal strikes. You have three minutes to disarm your opponent and claim victory,” Anacostia commands, glancing between the two of them. Christ, does that woman have a mute button anywhere on her? “The rest of you! Off the mats!” 

Everyone steps off in seconds, and Raelle swings the head of her scourge. 

“May the best witch win,” Raelle says, and Ceres’s brow crooks upward. Ceres steps backward, opening her arms to the side, as if saying ‘ _ come at me _ ’ to Raelle. 

Oh, she is going  _ down. _ This might be better than kicking Abigail’s ass. There’s nothing Raelle likes more than telling a stuck up prick to stuff it. 

“Your time begins… Now!” Anacostia yells, then backs away. Raelle goes in first, executing a low sweep with the whip in her hand. Ceres leaps over the whip, narrowly missing the tightly bound leather scraping her arms as she rolls back up to her feet. Her own scourge is still holstered on her hip. 

Raelle goes in for a high attack, swinging the heavy whip back before snapping it forward. Ceres leans away from the blow, the scourge whipping past her head, and Raelle is annoyed by the quickness of this woman— who, mind you, is a couple decent inches taller than Raelle and definitely heavier, if the muscles have anything to say about it. 

Raelle glances to Anacostia and shoots her a look, trying to say ‘ _ she’s not doing it right!’ _ with her face as best she can, but Anacostia just shrugs. If anything, she looks intrigued. 

Well, shit. 

Raelle doesn’t know how long it’s been, but Ceres hasn’t even  _ touched _ her scourge yet. Ceres, the top in the class for scourge training, hasn’t even used it. 

Absolutely infuriating. 

Raelle goes all in, whipping her scourge left and right in an effort to score even the tiniest hit on Ceres, but the silent woman doesn’t budge. It’s only when Raelle actually manages to snap the whip around Ceres’s hand that something finally fucking  _ happens. _

Ceres looks at the whip, then at Raelle, before yanking the whip and throwing Raelle off balance. Ceres unfurls her own scourge, a whip made of black leather woven tightly with a few iridescent purple strands that catch the light. Ceres whips it around in front of her, effectively creating a shield Raelle can’t break unless she times it just right. 

Raelle dips low, the scourge sweeping the floor. Ceres counters by hopping over Raelle’s whip, so Raelle attacks again, rolling to the side to flank Ceres. Ceres sees it coming,  _ somehow _ , and pushes herself from off the mat, bending in the air and executing a graceful backflip before landing on her feet. Ceres spins, scourge sailing in the air and the thick head of it knocks against Raelle’s hand. Not enough to hurt, but enough to throw her off and cause her to lose her grip. 

Ceres’s whip wraps around Raelle’s, and before Raelle can get her shit together, she’s been knocked on her back and Ceres is looming over her, holding two scourges with a cocky grin. 

“Time! Two minutes, on the dot. I’m impressed, Rosethorn,” Anacostia says, and Raelle pushes herself onto her elbows. The sergeant diverts her attention from an all too smug Ceres to Raelle. “You did good, Collar. But you can do better.” 

Ceres loops her scourge onto her hip, and offers out a slender hand. Raelle purses her lips, before grabbing Ceres’s hand. 

It feels like ice cubes are being shoved down the back of her shirt when she touches Ceres, and there’s a howling wind that reminds Raelle of snowstorms. The touch is fleeting, only until Raelle is upright. In the back of her mind, a voice whispers,  _ Better luck next time, Collar.  _

Ceres lets go, and every feeling of cold is gone within an instant. Ceres winks at her, dropping Raelle’s scourge back into the rightful owner’s hands. 

Raelle’s palm where Ceres’s fingers touched are stained a dark, obsidian black, like paint and shimmering in the light, but it quickly fades away. Raelle blinks. Was that ever even there, or did she imagine that? 

And that voice…

Raelle’s head snaps to where Ceres is stalking away, shoulders relaxed and her palms free of any black residue. Raelle shakes it off, walking back over to Tally and Abigail. Abigail looks only minorly miffed about Raelle’s loss to Ceres, but Tally— Tally looks panicked. 

Tally grabs Raelle’s hand, turning it palm up. Raelle jerks, pulling her hand away. 

“I— sorry, I thought I saw something on your hand when Ceres let go,” Tally whispers, looking embarrassed beyond belief. 

“You didn’t imagine it,” Raelle whispers, and  _ now _ Abigail bothers to talk to them instead of staring daggers at Libba Swythe. Raelle looks at her hand, inspecting it, “She talked to me.” 

“She  _ what?” _ Abigail hisses, eyes bulging out of her skull. “Ceres? The freakshow?” 

“Keep it in your pants, Bellweather. I  _ think _ she talked to me,” Raelle clarifies, but then sighs. “It’s whatever. I was probably imagining it. You too, Tally. I think we’re all just jittery because of the Spree attacks.” 

“Can’t say I don’t agree,” Abigail says. 

“Bellweather unit! Shut your traps and focus!” Anacostia says, making them stand ramrod straight. 

And by their own volition, Raelle’s eyes drift to Ceres, who is leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and looking at her. As if nothing ever happened, Ceres gives a friendly smile and a single wave. 

Raelle has never wanted to kick someone in the ass so hard. 

~~~~~

It’s past midnight, and Raelle can’t sleep. 

It might be partly because Tally sleeps above her  _ and _ she snores. 

Also, Raelle can’t stop thinking about scourge training earlier today. 

Ceres Rosethorn, the ever constant enigma of Sergeant Quartermaine’s squadron. The only witch in the entire school to be in her own unit. Is it even a unit if she’s alone?

The fuck is her  _ deal? _ Not a Necro— she wouldn’t be with Anacostia’s squadron if that were the case. Raelle turns onto her side, pressing her head harder into her pillow. In about five hours she has to be up for another mud session. No doubt the sergeants are going to conjure a storm for them to run in. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll be better than thinking about Ceres fucking Rosethorn and her arms and—

What is she  _ thinking? _

Raelle huffs. Never has she wished for Scylla to be with her more than right now. At least Scyl would be able to get Raelle’s mind off of every shitty thing that’s happened in the past few days. Raelle holds the pillow tighter, idly wondering how hard she would have to hit herself in the head to knock herself out for a decent night’s sleep. 

Raelle holds her hand out in front of her. She can barely see her palm in the darkness of the room, but the image of seeing nothing but black is still stark as day in her mind. Magic. It had to be. Raelle knows that witches are blessed with all sorts of powers, but a witch with no voice? A witch that can use a scourge the way a soldier with years of experience can? 

Something’s not adding up. 

Project Charon drifts back to Raelle’s mind. 

Tally’s bound to have a witch guide to Fort Salem  _ somewhere,  _ right?

Carefully, Raelle creeps out of bed, pushing past the quilt curtain and prodding around Tally’s tiny locker before finding a book.  _ The New Cadet’s Guide to Fort Salem! _ is spelled out in bold letters that Raelle can see in the dark, and she crawls back into bed. She flicks on the switch for the little lamp on her bed, and cracks the book open. 

“C’mon, Project Charon,” Raelle mumbles, eyes scanning the pages of the book. It talks about all sorts of things, ranging from training and making the best of basic, to a how-to on properly celebrating Beltane (if you’re straight, that is), and how to deal with shitbirds. Raelle bookmarks that page for later research (looking at you, Abigail Bellweather). 

She flips through some more pages, until she comes across a  _ hot tips! _ section that has— well, tips— outlined everywhere. 

Raelle’s eyes drop to one line. 

_ Whatever you do, do not talk about Project Charon in front of General Alder. For some unknown reason, this has been known to cause Alder to remove cadets from Fort Salem.  _

Beneath the line, a red marker has scrawled  _ ‘page 74’ _ and circled it. Not a handwriting Raelle recognizes— not the perfect, sloping script of Abigail, or the rough scrawl of Tally. A former cadet? Raelle flips to the page, and there’s a handwritten paragraph, again in that bold, red marker. 

_ Project Charon is all we talked about. We traded it like hot gossip when we were supposed to be sleeping in our dorms, like school children. Looking back, I wonder why I ever believed in it. Sounds so fake.  _

Raelle blinks. A different handwriting beneath that in an aged blue ink adds— 

_ It is true! You’re just an old crone. Anyway, Project Charon rumors started about fifteen years ago, when Alder got another biddy. Ever wonder why she has an odd number? People think Charon is to blame for that. Before that, she had only six biddies. Ever since, she’s had seven. Never said why. Project Charon was, and don’t quote me, a project aimed to boost Alder’s power. I heard that from a cadet in another unit at a party. I could be wrong.  _

“What the fuck?” Raelle whispers. She flips to the back of the book and looks at all of the names written down, and the years. The book has been passed down from cadet to cadet, of various bloodlines and family’s; the last name written is Tally’s. No wonder Tally knows everything— she has a damn manual to the Fort. Back to page 74. 

A marker in green continues on.  _ I heard those same rumors too, about the biddies. What I heard is that it was a kid witch plugged in to supercharge Alder’s power. I don’t know if it’s true, but the cadet who told me disappeared the next day. Haven’t said a word about it since.  _

What in the goddamn fuck? 

“Too much. Too much,” Raelle mutters, closing the book. But, just to look later, she slides it beneath her mattress. Hopefully, Tally won’t notice her manual being gone. Hopefully she’ll be too busy with Beltane and the boys showing up after training. 

Project Charon sounds too real. 

Alder supercharging herself with a  _ kid? _ Sounds absolutely outrageous. But… Alder doesn’t seem like the type to not do whatever it takes. 

Raelle dwells on the thought for only a second, before sleep comes over her. 

  
  



	3. of mud and men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the squadron run through a training course in a storm, ceres has a confrontation with izadora, and raelle doesn't understand how men are attractive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to clarify, I (wafflebitch) am the one writing the chapters and the plot, but Jess (Little_Ditty) is the one editing and making them look nice and clean.

Too early. It is  _ too _ early for any of this. 

It’s been a few weeks since basic started, and Raelle still isn’t used to being jarred awake by the witch bell. Is anyone? 

Raelle stretches her arms out as she jogs beside Abigail and Tally for the daily mile run before running the training course. Fingers crossed that she won’t have to spend her ten minute shower window cleaning mud out of her asscrack,  _ again. _

But with the way her luck is going, it’s not likely. 

They approach the mile mark, Anacostia’s signature stance alerting Raelle to the impending doom of the training course. Anacostia’s corporals are gathered around her, all looking excited at the prospect of absolutely ruining the cadets before the boys show up, and Raelle couldn’t be  _ more _ excited. 

(Sarcasm evident.)

“Ladies! This training course is unlike anything you have ever seen! You will be tested as individuals and as a team! If you cannot work with other witches, then you cannot work by yourself!” Anacostia strolls along the line of cadets, her eyes level and firm. She stops in the center. “You will be facing the course in the midst of a storm. The rain will make this only harder for you, and yes, there will be mud.” 

Stifled groans pass about the cadets, and Anacostia lets slip a small smirk. 

_ Nice to know she has emotions, _ Raelle thinks. Raelle glances down the line, and of course Ceres is the tallest. Not saying much— everyone in their squadron is small, with the exception of Abigail. Ceres is wearing a black tank top and the standard pants and boots combo, but Raelle’s eyes are drawn back to the faint bruising on Ceres’s arms. 

It looks like someone slapped Ceres over and over until those bruises were formed. 

Curious. 

“Your goal is to make it to the end of the training course as a squadron! No witch is to be left behind, you hear me?!” Anacostia shouts. 

“Yes, sergeant!” The squadron shouts back in unison. Pride flashes across Anacostia’s face for the briefest moment. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Anacostia says. She steps to the side. “Corporals, bring the storm!” 

“And the fury!” The corporals shout back, before beginning to sing the seed. Overhead, a cloud begins to form, thunder crackling inside of it, and lighting bolts crawl along the bottom of the cloud. 

“Go, go, go!” Anacostia yells, and the cadets go off sprinting, running into a wall of rain that soaks their clothes within seconds. Raelle  _ really _ should’ve tied back her hair, but slicking it back will have to do for now. 

The rain is coming down hard, making it hard to walk in the mud, and soon they’re having to crawl on their hands and knees through barbed wire. Raelle pushes through the mud, following in the rallying cries that the other girls are screaming to keep them going. 

After barbed wire, Raelle deals with swinging logs, having to dodge and weave through them to avoid being smacked out of the course. And, of fucking  _ course _ , there’s a wall. 

She pauses to catch her breath, and it’s enough for one of the girls to break past. 

Ceres. 

The silent woman stands next to the wall, pressing her back into it, and motioning at the cadets, before gesturing to her hands. 

Tally shrugs, and breaks off into a sprint to Ceres. Ceres shifts her stance, and as Tally jumps, cups the bottom of Tally’s boots and pushes her up. Tally reaches the top of the wall, grabbing onto the ledge and pulling herself up. Abigail goes next, and Tally helps pull her up, with a lift assisted by Ceres. 

Soon, other girls are mimicking Ceres, helping each other scale the high wall. It’s just Raelle left now. 

Ceres looks at her, and Raelle sighs. 

“Fuck it,” Raelle says, then sprints at Ceres. Ceres is grinning like a madwoman, and holds her arms out. Raelle pushes herself onto Ceres’s shoulders and Ceres’s hands push her up into the sky by her boot. Tally and Abigail grab onto Raelle and lift her the rest of the way up. 

“C’mon!” Raelle shouts, leaning down and holding her hand out to Ceres. Ceres takes a few steps back, before running to the wall. Ceres leaps, boot digging into the wall, and grabs Raelle’s hand for the second time in as many days. 

Ceres’s other hand finds the ledge, and she pulls herself up without so much as a blink, and claps Raelle on the back before running to continue the course. The fabric of Ceres’s shirt is soaked through, and when Raelle looks down, black is fading from her palm. 

Again. 

Raelle shakes it off, and keeps going. The next obstacle is a tar pit with a spinning log, and the rain only makes it that much harder. They manage to push through as a group, and make it past the rope wall. After the ropes, it’s  _ more _ logs, only this time they have to lift them and carry them from one end of the mud field to the other. They break off in groups of three, in their units, but there’s another log left. 

Smaller, but thicker than the rest. Ceres walks over and hoists it onto her shoulder, and leads the charge of the log brigade. 

It drags on for ages. Raelle’s muscles are crying out, needing relief, but she pushes onward.  _ Just a little more.  _

She crosses the line, and the rain ends. Raelle turns back to see the rest of the squadron cross, all soaked from head to toe and caked in layers of mud. As soon as the last cadet crosses, the storm over the course disappears. 

“Fantastic work, ladies. You made the best time all day, and it was because you worked together. You overcame the obstacles put before you, and I could not be prouder,” Anacostia says. She snorts. “Now go clean up. You all smell like cow shit, and the boys won’t like that.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Abigail muses, walking away. Tally follows, and the two turn back to Raelle. “Coming, shitbird?” 

Raelle glances at Ceres in the corner of her eye. The woman has stripped her shirt off and is cleaning the mud off her arms for a temporary fix, and Raelle has to pull her gaze away. 

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Raelle says, joining her unit. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

“Ceres.” 

Ceres freezes. What a way to ruin her post shower bliss, eh? Mud isn’t easy to get out. Regardless, Ceres turns around and locks eyes with Izadora. Ceres feels hatred coil around her heart, and her fingers curl into fists. 

“You’ve been making good progress in basic, I hear,” Izadora muses, taking a few steps forward. The corridor is empty— most of Ceres’s squadron is still showering and getting the remnants of today’s training course out. Izadora continues, “I wonder if it has anything to do with your little friend called Limbo.” 

Ceres surges forward, pressing her hand to Izadora’s throat and squeezing. Immediately, Izadora seizes up, hands trying to push away the vice grip on her neck, but Ceres doesn’t budge.

_ Don’t think I’ll be a fool to your experiments. Eight years was enough,  _ Ceres says— no,  _ screams _ — into Izadora’s mind. Eight years of hatred and pain flows through the link formed between Ceres and Izadora, and it’s enough to force the older witch to her knees. Ceres kneels down, keeping her grip tight.  _ Your obsession with death will only lead you to an unpleasant afterlife. That I will make sure of, Izadora.  _

“Your threats are empty, just like your voice, weakling,” Izadora spits out. 

Ceres laughs inaudibly, looking down the hallway. Still, nobody. 

_ Eight years of experiments wasn’t enough for you, hm? Need more now that I’m older, now that I know what the taste of death feels like? _ Ceres grips tighter, the black mark spreading across Izadora’s neck.  _ I know what it is like to be chased by the Hound of Death, and you will never live to see it. You will be devoured before you can learn, and that, Izadora, will be your downfall.  _

Ceres releases Izadora’s neck, leaving the woman gasping for air. Ceres takes a few steps back, reveling in the feeling of seeing her black marks spread on Izadora’s neck. With the force she held Izadora, they’ll be there for a few minutes. Best hope nobody comes to see the poor Necro Specialist gasping like a real weakling, downed by a mere eighteen year old witch still in basic. 

Ceres laughs again, putting her hand on her chest. The taste of revenge is like honey, but Ceres knows revenge isn’t something that stays sweet for long. It festers; turns sour beyond belief. 

Ceres has places to be. The front of the Fort, for instance. Mandatory attendance to greet the arriving boys. And that is something that deserves her entire attention. Not Izadora and her rancid experiments. 

So, Ceres turns around and walks down the hall. Her hand tingles— it always feels tingly after marking someone so intensely, fueled by a hatred bottled up for a decade. And that bottle, for the briefest increment of time, was uncorked. 

The power Ceres felt in her chest was terrifying. 

She’s reminded of her past, from infancy until she was eight years old. Ceres reaches up to her neck, feeling over the vertical scar, and she can almost feel the collar tightening around her skin again, the prodders digging in further. 

An awful feeling she hopes she never has to feel again. A feeling she hopes  _ no one _ has to feel. 

Ceres keeps her chin high, and her shoulders poised. She’s a Rosethorn. She’s poise and grace, in the face of death. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

Raelle could not be more annoyed by the amount of (apparently) attractive looking boys making their way out of the buses. The girls are cheering at the top of their lungs, and Raelle can feel the potent sexual energy just waiting to be released. 

One, disgusting, and two, she needs to find Scylla before she goes bonkers and shoves someone (preferably Abigail). 

Raelle leans against the stone, watching as the boys line up, and out steps the Witchfather. A man with broad shoulders and a thick beard,wearing a beige jacket. 

Beige? Really?  _ That’s  _ the color they went with? God, even orange would’ve been better. 

Raelle rolls her eyes as the Witchfather comes to greet General Alder, and then walks with the General into Fort Salem. The boys follow diligently, but watching them lavish their attention on some of the girls makes Raelle feel like throwing up. 

“Gross,” she whispers, face scrunching up. 

“We get it, Rae, you like pussy, not dick. Don’t ruin this for the rest of us, shitbird,” Abigail says, tossing her a look. Raelle shrugs. Abigail’s opinion doesn’t matter much to Raelle. Raelle crosses her arms, glancing up to the top of the stairwell, where the Witchfather, Alder, and her biddies are. 

And… Ceres?

Ceres has a hard glare on her face, and the Witchfather looks shocked to see her. Alder is quick to guide him away, and Ceres shakes her head, looking both disappointed and full of rage all at once. Ceres pushes herself off the stone wall roughly, and disappears from view. 

Everything about Ceres screams something awful. Something bad. Raelle would even venture to say something  _ Spree _ . A girl who can’t talk, but leaves black handprints on whoever she touches? Sounds like a recipe for fucking disaster. 

“I’m leaving,” Raelle announces. 

Tally is too enthralled by the boys to notice, but Abigail at least waves her off with a “goodbye shitbird!” Raelle flips Bellweather off, before heading to Scylla’s dorm building. If Scylla is anything like Raelle, then she’ll be avoiding the boys like the plague too. 

Sure enough, Scylla’s in her room, lounging on her bed, when Raelle is allowed in. 

“Hey,” Raelle says, taking no hesitation to jump into Scylla’s bed and press a long kiss to the brunette’s lips. A happy little sigh escapes Scylla’s lips, and Raelle pulls away. “I missed you.” 

Scylla cups Raelle’s face “I missed you too, Rae. Got tired of watching the other girls lose their shit over boys?” 

“I’ve seen enough boys to last me a lifetime,” Raelle answers, shifting so she lays next to Scylla. Despite lying next to Syclla, thoughts of Ceres keep running through Raelle’s mind— over the past few weeks, Ceres has shown herself to be powerful, but not with magic. In strength. In the scourge.

“What are you thinking about so hard? Keep up like that, and you’ll have more wrinkles than Alder’s biddies,” Scylla jokes, and Raelle just groans. 

“God, I don’t want to think about that,” Raelle says, pressing her palm to her eyes. She sighs. Scylla’s a Necro, she might know, right? “Do you know Ceres Rosethorn?” 

“The one who can’t sing?” Scylla asks, and Raelle nods her head. “I’ve seen her around. I’ll tell you what, though. Izadora won’t shut up about Ceres whenever she’s mumbling to herself in her lab.” 

“Izadora? Your Necro teacher?” 

“Yup. The very one. Came into class with this nasty looking mark around her neck thirty minutes ago, said we had no class today. I wonder what was up with that,” Scylla muses, looking at her nails. She then rests her hand on Raelle’s chest, fingers bunching in the light fabric of Raelle’s t-shirt. “Why are we talking so much?” 

“I don’t know. Why are we?” Raelle asks, mirroring Scylla. Scylla giggles, a light noise that makes Raelle’s heart jump as she leans in to kiss Scylla. 

They kiss more, until the bells are tolling and they have to go to the main grounds for the beginning of Beltane. An activity that neither of them want to attend, but they compromise; Scylla will walk Raelle there, and find her after the beginning. Sounds good to Raelle. 

Feels even better when she gets to hold Scylla’s hand the entire way. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to leave a kudos and a comment! thank you for reading!


	4. in hushed whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> raelle finds herself overhearing an important conversation while stuck in a tree. ceres comes face to face with the ghost of a boy who changes everything.

Raelle could walk for hours, and she wouldn’t be covering a fraction of the expanse of Fort Salem’s grounds. The Fort itself is massive, but the forest surrounding it is gargantuan— Raelle has yet to explore all of it, likely because she has little free time. Raelle’s schedule is chock full of training, trading barbs with Abigail, and making out with Scylla. Only one of those things is good. 

The earthen ground beneath her is damp from the light rain earlier, and Raelle finds that the forest after it rains is beautiful. It smells clean. 

And it’s a good place to avoid the boys. It’s not that Raelle doesn’t like them— she just hates how they keep approaching her like she’s even remotely interested. 

Laughable, honestly. 

So, that leaves Raelle here. Scylla is busy— classes for Necro. Abigail and Tally are having fun with the boys, and Raelle has  _ nobody _ else she wants to talk with, so she went for a walk. Some bullshit about how it clears the mind, blah blah blah. It’s not doing much, because Raelle is still pondering the point of Beltane. Cool. Witch holiday. When the fuck did it even start?

Raelle tugs at the fabric of her jacket, nails running over the velcro (velcro? really?) in thought. 

“She’s your  _ daughter _ , Sarah.” 

Raelle freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Oh,  _ shit _ . Witchfather. 

Raelle whirls her head around, before glancing up a tree. Not the worst idea she’s ever had. She grabs onto the branch and hauls herself up as fast as she can, scaling the tree until she’s sitting on the highest branch, her heart hammering in her chest. If there’s anything basic has done to help her, it’s made her faster and stronger.

“She’s a weakling, Witchfather. She was supposed to be the most powerful witch on the face of the Earth, and look what happened.” Alder’s voice drifts from below. Raelle grips the branch tightly, glancing down to the ground. 

Oh, she is  _ very _ high off the ground. This isn’t good. Raelle’s not afraid of heights— but the branch isn’t the strongest. 

“Whether you like it or not, Sarah, she is still ours. And as far as I’m concerned, if she’s come back from the dead, then you need to watch your back. We  _ both _ do,” Witchfather says firmly, arms crossed over his chest, his brows pinched together. Of  _ course _ they had to pause right below Raelle is perched. One wrong move and Raelle could have her ass beat. 

By the General and the Witchfather. Raelle grimaces at the thought. 

“Her powers are limited. I could squash her beneath my boot in a  _ second _ . She’s nothing. She’ll make it through basic, and get sent to the frontlines. The problem fixes itself, Witchfather.” 

_ Who are they talking about? _ Raelle thinks, trying to search her brain for anyone that fits what they’re talking about, but they’re being so damned  _ vague.  _ A daughter? The Witchfather and Alder have a  _ kid? _

Christ. There is too much floating around Raelle’s head. She’ll need an hour of processing and a keg of beer to get through it all. 

“Don’t be so quick to judge her, Sarah. You’ve seen her. There’s no doubt in my mind that she has more power than she’s showing. All I’m saying is to just be careful.” Witchfather has his hands held out in front of him, gesturing like he’s trying to convince Alder of something. 

Alder bristles visibly. “And  _ I’m _ saying that she’s irrelevant. Came here to goad me into a rash decision. She’ll be dealt with soon, Witchfather.” 

Raelle blinks. Is Alder talking about killing one of the cadets? Holy  _ fucking _ shit. She has to tell Abigail. Or Tally.  _ Someone _ . But not when they’re still below her, talking in hushed whispers about an unnamed daughter. 

The Raelle of a few weeks ago wouldn’t have believed a single thing about this. Now? Raelle has seen first hand that there’s more to Fort Salem than meets the eye. There’s more to Alder, and the Witchfather. More to  _ everything _ about this. 

“I’m done talking about this, Witchfather. I have things to attend to. Explore the grounds at your will,” Alder says, dismissing the Witchfather like he’s a disobedient private before walking away, arms folded tightly behind her back. There’s tension in her shoulders, and when Raelle looks at the Witchfather, he looks crushed. 

Seems to be a consistent theme after a conversation with Alder. 

Thankfully, the Witchfather walks away soon after, and Raelle releases her breath. Her heart is acting like a jackhammer, and she presses her back against the trunk of the tree to gather her thoughts. 

And instead of her mind being perfectly clear, it’s clouded with the need to find out the truth. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

Ceres walks. 

The act of walking is so strange to her. She’s pushing on the ground, and the ground is pushing back at her. Now, call her stupid, but isn’t that just  _ weird? _ Walking is being shoved forward by the Earth. 

Ceres wonders, briefly, if walking is the same in this reality as it is on Earth. 

After all, this is Limbo, and nothing is the same here. 

Ceres turns around, now walking backwards and admiring the line of roses following in her wake. She pauses, and tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket. A mix of white and red roses bloom with pride, rising high towards the false sun in the sky. 

On Earth, she’d have to cut all of them down, one by one. But here?

Ceres waves her hand in front of her slowly, and in one fell swoop, the heads of the roses are chopped off, falling to the ground. All that’s left of the once beautiful rose bushes are simply stems and thorns. Ceres turns around once more, and continues walking. 

Limbo is a strange place. It is everything and nothing, hot and cold, pleasant and desolate, all at the same time. Ceres has known Limbo for her whole life, and she still hasn’t gotten quite used to exploring it all. This is the only place where she’s truly whole— voice and all. 

Limbo goes by many names. The Graylands. The Endless Nowhere. The Realm Between Realms. 

Whatever people decide to call it, this is where they end up. 

The death before death. 

Ceres sighs, pulling her hands out of her pockets and spreading her palms to the ground. She flexes her fingers, and the ground shakes. Pillars of dirt and stone rise as Ceres walks, forming a stairwell that climbs towards the sky. 

Limbo is… 

Limbo is whatever Ceres wants it to be. 

Ceres curls her fingers into fists, the cauldron of power inside her chest  _ elated _ to be used, and before her eyes, the Endless Nowhere shifts into a forest of redwoods, the trees rising and rising until the trunks are bigger than the length of a bus. Ceres stands above it all, summoning winds to rustle through the leaves. 

Limbo is peaceful. Limbo has only the souls trying to find their way to the afterlife. In a sense, Ceres feels responsible for shepherding them, because souls don’t last long in Limbo. The Guardian ensures that. 

This is the one place that Alder cannot touch. This is the one place that no one but Ceres can come and go as they please. No one can infiltrate and ruin this asylum.

This is the safe haven. And she can shape it as she sees fit.

Ceres inhales, long and slow, arms stretched out as the pillars of stone lower her back to the ground safely. She continues walking, now enveloped by the smell of a fresh forest and the plushness of soft ground. 

A bell rings. Once, then twice. Silence. 

A new gate to the afterlife has just been opened. Ceres has spent a majority of her life here— she knows what the bells mean. 

Now, she has to find this gate. 

Ceres breaks into a sprint, her feet carrying her quickly. She warps the forest, the trees bending to make a clear path to the other side of the Endless Nowhere. 

_ Dong… dong… dong… dong…  _

A bell rings four times. 

Ten minutes before she has to leave Limbo. Ten minutes before her soul gets stuck permanently, and she can’t leave. Ceres pumps her arms, breaking through the forest and to the barren wasteland. Ceres presses her hand to the ground, the dirt rumbling and shaking as she shuts her eyes. 

A heat blossoms underneath her palm, and when she opens her eyes, a web of light has formed from the ground, stretching from her palm before a spindle of light shoots out to the west. 

Ceres pulls her hand from the dirt and wipes it on her pants. She knows where the gate is. 

_ Head west. There, you will find peace and safety. Go, _ Ceres thinks, broadcasting her thoughts to the souls of the dead. 

Souls walking at a slow pace begin moving towards the direction of the gate, and Ceres lets out of a sigh of relief. Her job is done. 

“You’re not dead.” 

Ceres turns around, peering at a gangly boy, his blonde hair matted with blood. Souls passing through Limbo bear the wounds that killed them, and this boy is no different— his skull cracked half open, and blood leaking down his neck and onto his beige clothing. 

“No,” Ceres says, cautious. “I’m not.” 

“Thank the goddess, you need to help me,” The boy begs, stepping forward and grabbing Ceres’s arm tightly. His tears mix with the blood on his cheeks, and he’s sobbing. “I was killed!” 

“Slow down,” Ceres says, putting her hand on top of his. “We need to get you to the gate before the—” 

_ Dong… dong… dong…  _

Three bells. Shit. 

“The Guardian,” Ceres whispers. No time. She glances down to her watch. She’s only got two minutes left before she’s stuck. Ceres looks to the boy, and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, you’ll be okay. Find the gate, and don’t look back.” 

The boy hesitates, then nods. Ceres turns, but the boy holds on.

“Promise me you’ll find her,” The boy whispers quickly, eyes full of terror. Ceres’s has a minute left. 

“Find who?” Ceres asks, her voice rushed.

“Raelle,” the boy replies, and then Ceres’s vision fades to black. 

~~~~~

A rush of air floods into her lungs and her hands splay, tensing. Ceres snaps her head up, opening her eyes. A jolt of cold races up her spine, shocking her brain back to life. 

Ceres sighs, standing up from her knees and prying off the cuffs around her wrists. The chains attached to the cuffs clink as they swing back and hit the wall. Ceres spares a glance to the clock on the wall. 

Ten hours spent in Limbo. Felt quicker than normal. Ceres rubs at her wrists mindlessly as she moves around her dorm room. She has a single room and has, for all intents and purposes, been lumped in with the Necros— likely a sick joke on Alder or Izadora’s part. However, Ceres has made the best of it— she’s got the tethering chains on the wall, and has her bed for whenever she wants to lounge. 

The festivities for Beltane start tomorrow, and Ceres has already spent almost half the day in Limbo. Ten hours on, eight hours off. The minimum recovery period— for Ceres at least— is eight hours. Otherwise, she feels fatigued and weak. 

Ceres glances down at her forearm, where a light bruise in the outline of a handprint has formed. Tricky thing, that. Ceres’s voice is trapped in Limbo, and her body in reality, but the line is muddled whenever Ceres goes into Limbo. Hence, whenever a soul in Limbo touches her, the prints transfer to her body in real life. 

And considering Ceres spends a majority of her time herding souls in Limbo, the handprints are common. 

Except this one feels different. Feels too  _ fresh. _ That boy had just died— the blood was still shiny and he was crying. In Limbo, emotions disappear after a certain amount of time, a sort of ‘cleansing’ for the afterlife. At least, that’s how Ceres understands it. She may be the only witch to go in between worlds, so she doesn’t exactly have anyone to compare notes with. 

Ceres runs a hand through her hair, securing it into a bun and looking out the window. It’s commonplace for souls to turn to her, the only truly living thing in Limbo, for help. Ceres helps them, as much as she can, but there’s only so much she can do without exhausting her own reserves of powers. In Limbo, it may feel endless, like a black hole. 

But the thing is, black holes don’t really  _ exist _ . All that’s seen is the event horizon of a black hole, and then everything else past it is, theoretically, frozen, because everything is slowed. That’s why they’re called black holes; light inside of it is frozen, so humans simply see black. 

Limbo is somewhat like that. It bends and warps and pauses whenever it wants to. It’s unexplainable, and Ceres knows she has barely scratched the surface of it. 

The question drifts to her mind.

Who was that boy that sought her out in Limbo?

He was young, young enough to be one of the Witchfather’s boys. Ceres remembers his clothes were beige. Shoes, pants, shirt, everything the boy was wearing was beige. And the only people Ceres knows to wear that much beige are Witchfather and his boys. 

So, the boy was on base, and tasked Ceres with finding Raelle. 

To tell Raelle  _ what,  _ though?

She wanders to her window, pushing it up and open. The energy of Beltane is pungent on the grounds of Fort Salem, and Ceres scrunches her nose. Gross. She’s glad she missed the whole  _ opening ceremony _ mumbo jumbo. Boys aren’t her taste— they never have been. 

There’s a scream from below, and Ceres’s eyes dart to the ground. 

Even from a couple floors up, Ceres can tell that one figure is Raelle. And Raelle is leaning over a boy in beige, who is splayed out across the sidewalk with blood leaking from his skull. 

_ What the fuck? _ Ceres bolts out of her room, shrugging on her jacket and racing down the stairs. She bursts out of the door from the Necro building and towards Raelle, where a crowd has formed. Ceres elbows her way through— palms would leave the black marks— and parts the crowd. 

And there Raelle is, passed out on her back, and a curly haired blond boy next to her. 

Curly hair. 

Oh, fucking hell. That was the boy Ceres saw in Limbo, right before she was pulled out by the chains. 

The gathered crowd start murmuring to each other and one word catches in Ceres’s mind—  _ suicide _ . But every fiber of her being wants to scream that this wasn’t a suicide.

Anacostia shoves her way through too, barely suppressing a gasp when she sees Raelle collapsed on the ground. 

“Rosethorn! Get Collar to the infirmary!” Anacostia orders, and Ceres snaps into movement, kneeling down to Raelle and sliding her arms underneath Raelle’s back and knees, hoisting her up. “The rest of you, step away! Private, get General Alder and the Witchfater, now!” 

Ceres adjusts Raelle in her arms, careful to keep her palms in places where clothes can hide the black marks. Ceres has done her best to keep those marks a secret, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

And Raelle, unconscious in her arms, is  _ definitely _ a situation worth breaking the no contact rule. 

Ceres hustles to the infirmary, trying to ignore the warmth of the blonde cradled in her arms. She’s not here to make connections to people. 

Connections are what Ceres severs in Limbo. Worthless to make them in reality when they disappear in death. 

Raelle groans in her arms, squirming around. Ceres holds tighter, whispering through her mind,  _ Sleep, Raelle. You did good.  _

The infirmary is up ahead, and witches are already coming out to help, with Colonel Wick at the forefront. They seem to already know what happened, as they take Raelle from Ceres’s hold quickly and efficiently. 

Colonel Wick orders for treatment and medication, before turning to Ceres. Colonel Wick, one of the few people who gave a shit when Ceres was younger. 

“Thank you, cadet. Collar’s safe, thanks to you,” Colonel Wick says. “I’ll be sure to tell Collar when she wakes up, but you should go and enjoy Beltane.” 

And yet, how is Ceres supposed to enjoy Beltane when the boy who supposedly just killed himself said differently in Limbo, and Raelle is unconscious? Ceres sighs harshly through her nostrils, turning around and stalking away. Her mind is whirling— Ceres suspects foul play. 

But who’s responsible for it?

~~~~~

So, his name was Porter. 

Ceres sits up straight, pulling a knee to her chest and resting her arm on her knee as she looks out to the mass of shirtless boys rough-housing in the grass. Girls are congregated, watching and cheering, and Ceres wonders what’s so appealing about it. 

Sure, they have abs, but Ceres has those too. Boys ain’t special. 

And how are they all continuing on as if nothing happened? 

Death is a friend of Ceres, but to see it happen in front of her? It’s jarring. 

_ C’mon, Ceres. Get your shit together, _ Ceres thinks, tapping her fingers on her thigh. 

Porter threw himself out a window, according to witnesses. It wasn’t said which window, but it was the Necro dorm. If this was really a murder and not a suicide, then who at the Necro dorm would have a vendetta against an unsuspecting witch boy? 

Ceres  _ could _ pull him from the afterlife to ask him, but that requires a decent expenditure of power that she doesn’t know if she has right now. Besides, she heard that Izadora (the bitch) is opening death currents to ask his body later. 

Boots crunch in the dirt behind her, and Ceres glances. 

She sees beige, and rolls her eyes, turning to look forward again. 

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” The Witchfather says, as the fingers of his left hand fidget ever so slightly. 

_ Understatement of the century, _ Ceres thinks. 

Ceres presses her lips together into a tight line, tilting her head away from the Witchfather as he takes a seat next to her on the bench. 

“I regret everything I did, Ceres. I’m so sorry,” He says, voice pleading. “Please, you have to understand—” 

Ceres’s hand shoots out to grab his forearm, her grip tighter than an iron vice. 

_ You apologize for watching me get tortured for eight years?  _ She asks, her voice colder than the winds during winter.  _ You apologize for doing nothing? You apologize for standing off to the side? _

The Witchfather looks terrified when Ceres turns her head to look at him. But, he swallows, and replies, voice quiet, “I’m sorry for letting Alder hurt you.”

_ Ten years too late, Witchfather.  _ Ceres drops his arm, and despite the jacket, Ceres knows the black mark will linger. Ceres stands up, and walks away. She has no business with the Witchfather anymore. 

He can try, but it’s useless. 

“Ceres, please,” He appears right in front of her, holding his arms out in a motion of peace. Ceres, instead of bothering to talk to him, rips her medallion off her neck, and dangles it in front of him. The Witchfather flinches at the sight of it, the metal shining in the noonday sun, and shame briefly passes his face. The medallion that links everyone to their family, and yet, Witchfather has never bothered to claim Ceres. Ceres takes a few steps forward, and he steps back. 

When Ceres stops, so does he. Ceres puts the medallion back around her neck, and merely turns around. The Witchfather calls out to her, but Ceres doesn’t dare look back. He doesn’t deserve her hesitation, or even a spot in her mind. 

He doesn’t deserve a spot in Limbo, even. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to comment and leave kudos! thank you for reading!


	5. sex and spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the spirit of beltane is in full swing. raelle ponders the truth behind porter's death, scylla suffers from paranoia, and ceres eats a few too many scallops and coconut shrimp at the appetizers table. the Reel brings them closer than ever, and the day after brings news that reveals the truth of ceres's identity.

The art of one scourge is complicated enough. Using two is a whole different ball game. 

Or, rather,  _ whip _ game. 

Ceres squeezes the leather in her hands, giving the whips a few whirls to test the weight. Around her, stone dummies have been set up on sliders to move back and forth, to give Ceres more of a challenge. 

Scourge training feels a bit too easy to her sometimes. Ceres can’t talk, but she can certainly hear the whispers of other cadets wondering if she could beat Anacostia in a fight. Ceres wonders that too, but she’d rather not face a drill sergeant with years of combat experience. 

Ceres flexes her wrists, dragging the heads of the whips across the floor before moving into the beginning stance. 

Only she hears boots behind her, and she sighs.  _ Fantastic fucking timing. _

Ceres looks over her shoulder. 

“Hi,” Scylla Ramshorn says, hands tucked into the pockets of her pants. She’s got a smile on her face, but it’s polite. Here for business, Ceres assumes. Ceres makes an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders, as if asking  _ what do you want? _

Scylla steps forward, glancing down to the ground briefly before flickering back up. “You live in the Necro dorms, right?”

Ceres nods her head yes, then tilts her head to the side, raising a brow. An urge for Scylla to get on with it. 

“You’re not Necro, though. I haven’t seen you in Izadora’s classes.” 

Ceres ponders how to get her answer across without touching Scylla to communicate. It quickly becomes clear that Ceres doesn’t need to; Scylla is taking bold steps forward, getting up close and personal to Ceres, nearly chest to chest. 

“I don’t know why you’re here, or what you want, but stay out of my business. I’m doing my job, and you’re making it harder,” Scylla hisses, blue eyes colder than ice. “So do us all a favor, and stop interfering. You want Raelle, I’m getting her.” 

_ Uh, say what now? _ Ceres is thankful that nobody can read her thoughts, because Scylla is going off about something Ceres  _ clearly  _ doesn’t know about. But Scylla doesn’t know that, does she?

So, Ceres mouths  _ Porter? _ to Scylla, and the smaller girl freezes. Scylla’s jaw sets, and she turns around, practically stomping away in anger. What a rash reaction to a boy who  _ supposedly _ killed himself. Ceres’s brows furrow.

Might as well turn up the fear factor, hm?

When Scylla gets a certain distance away, Ceres snaps her arm forward, the scourge still in her hand whipping forward. The rope shoots past Scylla’s arm and wraps around her wrist, the grip of a deathly boa constrictor stopping Scylla in her tracks. Scylla yanks her arm, but Ceres doesn’t budge, keeping her face flat and as impassive as possible. 

It works. Scylla’s face morphs into one of alarm, as she tries pulling her wrist out of the grip of the scourge. Ceres pulls on her end, causing Scylla to skip and struggle to stay upright. 

“Okay! Okay, I’ll try harder, just—” Scylla whispers, and Ceres flicks her wrist, the scourge loosening and slipping off of Scylla’s wrist. One more look from Ceres, and Scylla is nearly running out of the training gym. 

Ceres purses her lips. 

Interesting. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

Raelle’s head is pounding, but it could be worse. She could be dead. Like Porter. 

She stifles a sigh as she sits up in the infirmary bed. With no recollection of how she got here after seeing Porter  _ die _ in front of her, Raelle is  _ very  _ confused. 

So much so, that Colonel Wick notices as she fixes Raelle up. They did the healing after Raelle came from unconsciousness, just to be sure that there wouldn’t be any issues afterwards. 

“Hit your head pretty hard,” Colonel Wick says, “Lucky that Rosethorn got you here in time, Collar. Else the bump on your head would be bigger.” 

“Ceres?” Raelle says, dumbfounded. 

“Came running in with you in her arms. I know the girl doesn’t talk, but she sure as hell looked worried, kid,” Colonel Wick replies, then steps back, clapping her hands together. “You’re all good. If you feel any lingering after effects, come back for another check up. Otherwise, you’re free to go.” 

“Thank you.” Raelle’s still stuck on  _ Ceres _ carrying her to the infirmary. 

Ceres Rosethorn, the girl who whipped Libba and Abigail onto their asses in scourge training last week. That Ceres is the one who brought her here? Un-fucking-believable. 

With her jacket in hand, Raelle walks out of the infirmary with a few more warnings from Colonel Wick. Ceres races around in her mind, along with the image of Porter, bleeding out and dying in her mind. 

“Rae!” 

Raelle looks up, and sees Scylla. Relief floods her and Raelle charges forward, wrapping Scylla in a tight hug. Scylla kisses Raelle’s temple gently, whispering an ‘I missed you’ to the blonde cadet. Raelle pulls away to kiss Scylla, long and sweet. 

“Are you okay?” Scylla asks, putting her hand on Raelle’s forearm before drifting down to grab her hand as they begin walking. 

“Yeah, I just—” Raelle swallows. “You knew him, right? Did he have any issues, or was he depressed—” 

“Rae, he’s always been a little… off,” Scylla dodges, squeezing Raelle’s hand. Raelle looks down, and past the cuff of Scylla’s jacket, she sees a dark bruise, purple and webbed. 

“What happened?” Raelle asks, bringing Scylla’s wrist up. Scylla bristles, eyes flitting elsewhere.

“It’s nothing, just something that happened during instruction this morning,” Scylla replies, not meeting Raelle’s gaze. “Look, I have to get going for class, but I’ll catch you during Beltane, okay?” 

“Okay,” Raelle whispers, tilting her head to the side so Scylla only kisses her cheek. A flash of hurt passes through Scylla’s eyes for the briefest second, but she turns and leaves anyway. Raelle holds her jacket to her chest, walking down the path back to her dorm building. 

Scylla, ever since Raelle met her, has consistently avoided answering any and all questions about herself or anything around her. It’s not fun, because Raelle  _ knows _ she has feelings for Scylla, and if it keeps going like this… 

Raelle won’t deal with it. She doesn’t want to deal with that heartbreak of someone not giving her love openly. 

Her mind backtracks to Ceres, and every time she has looked Raelle’s way. During training courses, when they’re plowing through the mud, or during scourge training, when Ceres gives her those sly glances with every snap of the whip. 

To be fairly honest, Ceres takes up more space in Raelle’s head than Scylla does. She’s an untouchable enigma with no voice, no words to be said. How can someone with no ability to speak have such an expressive face, though? The few times Raelle catches Ceres looking at her, Ceres looks thoughtful, like every word in her mind is spoken with her eyes. 

Raelle wants to learn that unspoken language that Ceres speaks. She wants to know why Ceres leaves a black mark on Raelle’s skin every time she touches her, or why there are the faint outlines of handprints on her arms like a web. Raelle wants to know why Ceres looks at her instead of anyone else. 

Simply put, there’s more to Ceres Rosethorn that Raelle wants to know, but how does she talk to someone who communicates with telepathy?

Raelle realizes that she’s in front of the gym, empty with no classes, as Beltane is the current event on the forefront of everyone’s mind. Raelle sighs, stuffing a hand into her pocket, before walking in. Might as well do some critical thinking while working out the energies with a whip, right?

Raelle’s not the only one there, though. 

A violent crack snaps through the air as stone dummies fly in from all directions, and in the middle of it all, Ceres is whipping around with her scourge in hand. No,  _ two _ scourges, shorter in length, but just as lethal. 

It’s graceful, the way Ceres moves and bends to destroy the stone dummies. The dummies are charmed to come back together after they’re destroyed, so it’s simply a storm of stone flying left and right before coming back together, and Ceres tearing them all apart again. Raelle tosses her jacket onto one of the benches, and simply watches. 

Ceres executes a deadly spin, obliterating all of the dummies in one sweep as she flips into the air. By the time she lands on her feet, she’s breathing heavily, chest heaving as the dummies piece themselves together. 

“You’re good at that,” Raelle says, and Ceres turns, looking quite surprised to see Raelle. Ceres pushes one whip into her other hand so she’s holding both, then gestures with her hand. First, to Raelle, then to her own head, as if pointing to a bump, then making a cross on her shoulder. “Colonel Wick cleared me from the infirmary. I’m good to go, don’t worry.” 

Ceres tilts her head to the side, and silence falls over them. 

“I heard you were the one who brought me there. Thank you, for that,” Raelle says, and Ceres’s brows raise. “Not so tough, huh?” 

Ceres shakes her head and rolls her eyes, smiling slightly. She then gestures to her stomach, before opening her palm up, then pointing to Raelle. 

Raelle pulls her shirt up, and there’s nothing. When she looks black to Ceres, the other woman seems relieved, though Raelle wouldn’t know why. 

Some more silence, as Ceres winds up her whips and puts them in the training bins for the next class, whenever that is. As Ceres works, Raelle spots more bruising along Ceres’s forearm. 

“Are you hurt?” Raelle asks, and Ceres meets her gaze, brow cocked. “Your arm. The handprints.” 

Ceres looks down, and her jaw tenses. Then, she walks over with purpose in her stride. She holds out her arm, then gestures at Raelle to do the same. Raelle does, extending her bare arm out, and Ceres puts her finger on Raelle’s skin. 

Raelle nearly jumps at how cold Ceres’s finger is, but soon forgets all about it when she sees Ceres trace letters that soon become blacker than ink. 

_ Normal for me, _ Ceres writes, then pulls her finger away. The black letters disappear quickly, and Ceres writes again.  _ Don’t worry.  _

“That’s so cool,” Raelle breathes, watching with rapt attention as the script dissolves into her arm. Ceres smiles at her, lips stretched wide and the corners of her eyes crinkling, before drawing a smiley face. Raelle laughs, and Ceres simply looks at Raelle. 

Then, Ceres writes,  _ I see you. _

Plain and simple, and Ceres walks away after that, leaving Raelle with more questions than answers. But the text on her arm lingers for a little more, and Raelle stares at it. 

It shimmers on her arm like obsidian, and Raelle finds herself captivated by the simple existence of it. But all too soon, it’s gone, and Raelle is alone in the gym. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

They have  _ scallops? _

_ Well, don’t mind if I do, _ Ceres thinks, striding to the appetizers with a small skip in her step, plucking the breadcrumb covered scallops and plopping it into her mouth. When in doubt, go to the appetizers and finger foods.  _ Nothing like stuffing your face to avoid boys hitting on you, right? _

Ceres, in light of all the events that have happened since Beltane started, begrudgingly went to the festival in her best attire. Only for the appetizers, let it be known. 

Nothing turns her off more than boys fawning over the other cadets. It’s dis— oh, a couple are already making out behind the trees. Seriously, is nobody gonna stop that? Good grief. 

Ceres turns her attention to the coconut shrimp, and plucks one from off the table. Mmm,  _ crunchy _ . 

She’s halfway through devouring another one when Anacostia sidles up next to her, and the sergeant looks at her. Ceres pauses, then crunches down before tossing the tail into the trash can. She wipes her lips, then pretends she wasn’t shoveling food down her throat three seconds ago. 

“I… wanted to tell you that I’m glad you’re here, Ceres,” Anacostia says, arms folded behind her back. Her voice is low when she speaks, “But how did you survive?” 

Ceres clears her throat, placing a respectful hand on Anacostia’s elbow, speaking quickly,  _ After you rescued me from the clutches of Izadora and her scalpels, and handed me off to Berryessa, she gave me to the Rosethorns.  _

Out of the corner of her eye, Anacostia glances at Berryessa, busy eating fruits at another appetizer table and talking to Tally. Looking back, Anacostia whispers, “And the Rosethorns?” 

_ A very powerful and ancient matriline, even Alder wouldn’t cross Lady Rosethorn without a very good reason,  _ Ceres replies, spearing a marshmallow with a toothpick before dipping it into the chocolate fountain. Doesn’t need to use her mouth to talk, so it’s no issue, right?  _ Nursed me back to health. Made sure I didn’t die as I got older. _

“I’m grateful,” Anacostia says, then lowers her head. It’s shame— an emotion Ceres rarely sees from the sergeant. “Look, Ceres, I’m sorry.” 

_ Costia, you have no idea how much what you did helped me. With everything that had happened, you gave me a reason to keep living. To keep fighting.  _

“Still, I should have done something sooner.,” Anacostia says, meeting Ceres’s eyes. “Before you—”

Ceres leans forward ever so slightly, as if to emphasize her point.  _ You were given a job.. You had to follow orders. But you still showed me kindness. I get it, Costia. I’ve forgiven you already.  _

“I… Thank you, Ceres. It’s not something I deserve, but I thank you,” Anacostia says, and Ceres grins, snapping her fingers before grabbing some watermelon slices. Anacostia smiles for the briefest second, watching as Ceres downs some fruit punch. Anacostia follows along, eating some finger foods politely. “You’ve heard of Porter’s suicide?” 

Ceres nods, wiping some chocolate off the corner of her mouth. 

Anacostia turns to face Ceres fully, whispering, “And do you know anything from…?” 

Ceres touches Anacostia’s arm briefly.  _ Who’s asking? _

“Just me, Ceres.” 

Ceres eyes Anacostia for a few moments, chewing thoughtfully on some vegetable egg rolls, before sighing. She wipes her hand on a napkin, before jerking her head to walk. They walk side by side, in silence, passing by some boys and girls mingling. Ceres’s eyes drift to a head of bright blonde hair, straightened and groomed back. 

Raelle, wearing a suit with no shirt beneath, and the sleeves pushed up to her forearms. Ceres bites the inside of her lip, willing her face to remain passive, but Anacostia glances at her with mild curiosity in her eyes. Ceres looks away. 

Once they’ve reached a more private place, Ceres holds Anacostia’s arm, speaking,  _ He was panicked. I couldn’t talk to him for long, but he looked terrified.  _

“How so?” 

_ He said he was killed, Costia, _ Ceres says, pouring every ounce of seriousness into the link between her and Anacostia. 

“Shit,” Anacostia exhales. “You’re sure?”

_ About him being intentionally killed? Yes. But who killed him? He didn’t tell me, but I’m thinking foul play from someone here, _ Ceres replies. 

“Could you find out?” 

Ceres shifts in place, biting her lip.  _ I could. But it takes a lot of power to do so.  _

“Hold off on it. We’re looking into it already,” Anacostia says, and Ceres nods, understanding. “I won’t tell anyone what you told me, but I will try my best.” 

Ceres shifts her hand to hold Anacostia’s for a moment.  _ Thank you, Costia.  _

“Thank you for trusting me, Ceres,” Anacostia responds, and Ceres opens her arms. Anacostia rolls her eyes; she spares a glance around for anyone peeking before hugging Ceres tightly. A decade’s worth of emotions pours into the link between them, and Ceres feels the sadness. 

Anacostia having to do Alder’s dirty work is something Ceres has always despised, but has never blamed Anacostia for it. The way in is between, isn’t it?

Ceres lets go, and claps Anacostia on the shoulder. 

“Enjoy the festivities, cadet,” Anacostia remarks, and Ceres gags. Anacostia scoffs, watching Ceres walk away. 

Ceres feels a lightness in her chest. Anacostia has always been important to Ceres, and despite the years of age between them and the length they went without seeing each other, Ceres still holds Anacostia on a pedestal, of sorts. Ceres trusts Anacostia to do the right thing, to not follow Alder blindly. 

She hopes that trust isn’t misplaced. 

She may trust Anacostia, but it’s a bond that can be severed within seconds. Ceres has learned to keep everyone at arm’s length. 

A realm away. 

Ceres adjusts the cuffs of her shirt as she goes onward to mind her business. Beltane’s purpose seems a bit stupid to Ceres, but she’ll respect the tradition nonetheless. 

Once she’s rolled the cuffs of her pressed button-up to her elbows, she smoothes a hand over her vest, and strolls along the gardens. Flowers have been placed everywhere, and bees buzz about overhead, respectfully minding their business. No doubt the energy of Beltane has transformed the grounds of Fort Salem, but it’s in vain; a man  _ died _ from suicide. 

Or, at least, that’s what everyone thinks. 

Being Death’s servant has its benefits, but it’s more a curse than a blessing. Ceres exhales sharply through her nose as a pair of witches flit by her, giggling like school children before collapsing to the grass and making out. 

Ceres’s nose scrunches up in distaste. Again, she respects the holiday, but right in front of her?  _ Really? _

She continues on, hands sliding into the pockets of her slacks. With the thought of Porter lingering in the back of her mind, it’s hard to even think about truly celebrating. 

Not that Ceres  _ would _ . Even on Beltane, the no-contact rule is firm and strict. She doesn’t need to release those sexual energies that Berryessa could go on about forever (and she has). Ceres is perfectly fine without it. 

Raelle flashes in Ceres’s mind for the briefest second, and Ceres lets out a curse. Why Raelle, of all people? 

She sighs, and pulls her hand out of her pocket to look at her watch. It’s only been four hours since her last trip to Limbo— can’t go back anytime soon. Passing time via Limbo is out of the question. 

Ceres comes to a stop near the thick trunk of an oak wood tree, the bright leaves shading her as she surveys the lands before her. The Reel is due to begin soon. Raelle might be participating. Only then would Ceres really consider doing it. Raelle doesn’t seem like the type to do it. 

But on the off chance that she is…

Ceres sighs, then turns around, walking to where the Reel is being held. She can almost hear Berryessa cackling in her head. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

Raelle slides up next to Tally, grabbing the redhead’s hand. Tally looks grateful, whispering, “Thank you.”

Grumbling, Raelle replies, “Told you I’d be here.” 

Raelle missed half of the introduction that Berryessa was going on about, but she knows the basics; let the Reel guide you, blah blah blah, dance with some dudes for a few minutes, then go fuck off and do whatever. 

“Let’s do this!” Tally exhales, anxiety and excitement radiating off of her. She drags Raelle and Abigail forward, before letting go to yank off her heels. Begrudgingly, Raelle follows, pulling off the straps of her heels and tossing them to the side before jogging onto the wooden dance floor spread out on the grass. Boys are laughing and shoving each other around, and Abigail is swept off her feet by one of them, carried off to goddess knows where. 

Raelle feels particularly out of place. 

The drums begin playing, and Raelle  _ feels _ it, a ball in her lower stomach tightening as the song courses through her blood. People begin shifting into position, the Reel guiding them along. 

Raelle’s eyes skip over the people in the crowd, and they pause on brown eyes, warmer than molten gold. Ceres stands at the other end of the dance floor, shoes tugged off, shirt unbuttoned down to her bellybutton, and emerald green vest undone. She’s doing much of what Raelle is doing— skirting the edges and avoiding the dance, but there’s only so much that can be done to abstain from the Reel. 

It pulls Raelle in, and much of her attention is lost to Ceres, who weaves through the crowd of dancers like a cloud of smoke. It’s captivating, so much so that Raelle goes through the motions of the dance fluidly while keeping her gaze locked on Ceres. That ball deep within her coils tighter and tighter the longer the drums beat on, and it pulsates, filling her with a need to touch. 

Ceres is lithe, bending through the people with an artful ease that Raelle can’t do anything but watch as they work their way towards each other without even thinking about it. The beat drops and Ceres slides to her knees before Raelle. Raelle’s hand goes to Ceres’s head, fingers tapping against the fawn brown strands of Ceres’s curly hair. They glance at each other. 

The ball feels painfully tight in Raelle’s stomach, as Ceres is looking at her with a heaving chest and an open mouth. The music swells, and Raelle pulls Ceres to her feet by her hair, only for them to part again as the tempo changes. 

Still, Ceres touches no one as the dance rages on. The Witchfather and Alder have long since disappeared, leaving only the boys and girls to continue the dance. 

The music crawls to end, with the final drums rushing in. 

It’s almost immediate, the way Raelle searches for Ceres on the dance floor. Raelle finds Ceres and they look at each other for only a fraction of a second before moving closer. The Reel pulls them together as the music ends, Raelle being lifted into Ceres’s arms and held tightly. Ceres’s breath is oddly cold on Raelle’s skin, but it sends a tingle into the pit of her stomach all the same. 

The way Ceres is looking at her reminds Raelle of staring into the heart of a fire. It’s burning, but when Raelle puts her hand on Ceres’s neck, thumb stroking the sharpness of Ceres’s jawline, it’s freezing cold. 

The coil within Raelle’s stomach is yelling at her,  _ screaming _ for relief. Raelle believed she wouldn’t fall prey to the sexual energies of Beltane; well, boy, was she fucking wrong. 

And Raelle almost does it. She almost leans in to quell that urge. 

But Ceres is putting her on the ground. Softly setting Raelle on her feet before turning and walking away, as if nothing had happened. 

And as girls and boys couple up and walk away to relieve those energies, Raelle is left with only a heady mix of confusion and arousal for company. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

While everyone else is still picking themselves off the grass, the lingering effects of alcohol making them sluggish, Ceres is dressed in her fatigues, minding her business and cleaning up. It’s not required of her, but goddess be damned if Ceres doesn’t at least pick up  _ some _ trash left over from the festivities. 

The training officers appreciate the help, that much Ceres knows. She hefts the trash bag onto her shoulders after tying it up, throwing it into the gigantic pile of other trash bags. Ceres purposely avoided having a drink— drinking heavily and going into Limbo doesn’t go well together. Something Ceres learned from experience, unfortunately. 

Ten trash bags was her quota, and ten trash bags she has delivered. Ceres signals to Anacostia, who nods and lets her go off for the rest of the day. The day before, during, and after Beltane were cleared to maximize the power of the witches, but it only makes Ceres itch to do something again. She doesn’t have a hangover to sleep off, like everyone else does. It boggles Ceres— how did everyone sleep in the  _ grass? _ How did they have sex in the grass? How unsanitary. 

So now that she’s finished, she might go back to the rough room and practice some more with the scourge. Can’t go back to Limbo, as she did that last night after the Reel. 

The Reel… 

Ceres inhales, wiping her hands over her face. She let herself give into the Reel, let the powers of age-old magic work itself on her, and it drew her right to Raelle’s feet. And that feeling, deep in her stomach afterwards, that told her to kiss Raelle, to give in entirely and feed off the energy of Beltane?

Ceres almost did it. She will admit that. She imagined what it would be like to kiss Raelle, but there were too many people. Too big of a risk. 

And Raelle is with Scylla, anyway. 

She walks into a private section of Fort Salem’s gardens to take a breather and give herself a break from it all. The gardens are supposed to be peaceful, aren’t they?

Well, that is until Ceres sees  _ them. _

Near the base of an old oak, under the leaves, Scylla and Raelle are holding each other sweetly, and Raelle has a flower. Scylla is smiling at Raelle, and somewhere deep in Ceres, she knows it’s not a real smile. 

Ceres narrows her eyes— Scylla Ramshorn has always given her pause. Fidgety and anxious near any authority figures, and  _ especially _ around Ceres, if yesterday was anything to show for it. Not to mention, Scylla believes Ceres to be  _ watching _ her, getting in the way of her  _ job. _ What job could that be, Ceres wonders. 

Regardless of what’s going on and who’s doing what, it’s suspicious. 

And Scylla  _ is _ a Necro. The same dorm that poor Porter flung himself from. 

Interesting. 

Ceres shifts her stance, leaning against the wood and crossing her arms over her chest. 

They don’t appear to be in love. 

Love is complicated, though. There are so many forms of it, so many that become so important. Yet, the moment death comes in reality, it disappears in Limbo. All of these hard won connections made in real life with real people are cut off, like a knife to a string. Ceres knows, from seeing hundreds, if not  _ thousands _ , of emotionless, loveless people wander their way to the afterlife. Eventually that lost love can be reclaimed, but that’s a rare event in Limbo. 

Ceres has never seen the other side of those shiny, white gates to the afterlife, and she doesn’t intend to find out. Not when she still has things to take care of here. She’ll let the Guardian nip her ass when she’s done with her agenda. 

Ceres blinks, zoning back in and fixing her focus, only to notice that Raelle is looking at her. Scylla is too, her eyes full of fury, but there’s a hint of anxiety behind them. Ceres just smiles, charming and suave as always, before turning around and walking away. 

She ignores that string tightening between her and Raelle. She ignores it getting thicker, so much so that a knife couldn’t slice through it. She ignores the hum of that string vibrating, as if being played by a master violinist in a concerto.

Ceres glances at her watch. No better time to go to the rough room and get more scourge practice in. As she goes, a hand clamps around her wrist and pulls her back viciously. It’s Scylla, her mouth set in a hard line and eyes ablaze. Scylla drags her to a private area, and whirls on her. 

“Stop  _ watching  _ us, you’re making things harder,” Scylla hisses. “At this rate, you won’t get what you want. So just do us all a favor, and stop hovering.” 

Scylla pushes away Ceres’s wrist with disgust, turning away to leave.  _ Can’t let her get away with threatening me that easily, _ Ceres thinks, her hand shooting out. She grabs the back of Scylla’s neck, holding tightly and pulling Scylla back slowly. 

_ She isn’t even your girlfriend, is she? _ Ceres asks, Scylla now pulled to her chest so Ceres can look at Scylla’s face. Scylla swallows, and Ceres squeezes harder. 

“No, not yet.” Scylla’s voice is a whisper, her hands shaking. 

_ Oh,  _ Ceres begins, intrigued.  _ And what job is this, exactly? _

Scylla goes rigid. Ceres’s mouth turns up in a smile as she watches the conflicting emotions wash over Scylla’s face. Ceres lets go of Scylla's neck, and the brunette spins to look at Ceres, eyes filled with horror and confusion. Ceres folds her arms politely behind her back, smiling as if nothing ever happened, but the black handprint on the back of Scylla’s neck would beg to differ. She’ll feel that one for a few minutes, at the very least. 

If there’s one thing Ceres can count on, it’s that each day at Fort Salem gets more and more fascinating. Ceres glances down at her palm, then hums. Scylla’s behavior is definitely something notable. Perhaps pulling Porter from the afterlife is more important than Ceres thought. 

After all, often the dead can answer the questions the living can’t. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

Ceres always seems to be there, lingering in the shadows whenever Scylla is around. It’s curious and strange at the same time. Raelle doesn’t know what to make of it. Just today, Ceres was there, watching her and Scylla in the garden before Raelle had to go. 

And now, Raelle is laying on her bed, staring at the slats of the bunk above her and wondering where her endless torrent of mixed emotions begins and where it ends. 

“Tal, how’s your mark?” Abigail calls out from where she’s sitting on her bed, reading a thick book. 

“Shinier than my boot before inspection!” Tally says in response, causing the whole room to laugh. Ever since Beltane, it’s been nothing but high spirits for Abigail and Tally, who definitely got what they wanted out of it. As for Raelle? She spent the night on the grass drunk off her ass and giggling with Byron because the two of them had absolutely nothing else they wanted to do. 

Hanging out with Scylla was out of the picture, because she had a late night Necro class. And when Raelle thinks about it, would she really have wanted to spend her time of Beltane with Scylla?

“How was it, having two boys, Abigail?” Tally asks, brimming with curiosity as she leans over the edge of the bunk bed. Abigail sighs good-naturedly, before closing her book and shifting on her bed to sit upright. Abigail runs a hand through her hair briefly, before giving a smirk that says it all. Tally squeals in delight as Abigail goes through some details. 

Raelle, as much as she tries, really couldn’t care less about Agustin and whatever the other boy’s name was. Not that she doesn’t care about Abigail, she just doesn’t want to hear every single detail. Raelle was already scarred for life when Tally recounted everything she and Gerit did. 

“But enough about boys, because I think we’ve blinded poor shitbird for life,” Abigail says, looking teasingly at Raelle. “What about you getting it on with Necro  _ and _ the freakshow?” 

“Don’t call them that. They’re both good people, Abigail,” Raelle bites, and Abigail rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah, Scylla’s alright, but Ceres? She doesn’t talk. How do you know she’s so good?” Abigail says, cocking a brow. 

Raelle opens her mouth, but shuts it. Would Ceres want Raelle to tell them about her telepathy linking? After a few quick seconds, she just shuts up entirely. 

“What was that during the Reel, though? I thought you were about to start making out right then and there!” Tally exclaims. 

“It’s a wonder you even noticed, with Gerit eating your face and all,” Raelle says, looking at her nails. She needs to cut them again. Tally gasps, offended, and Abigail is sniggering. 

“I’ll have you know I was  _ very _ attentive to what my teammate was getting up to! Didn’t you notice, Abigail?” Tally turns to Abigail for help. 

Abigail merely raises her hands. “I plead the fifth.” 

“Ugh, you’re worthless.” 

Raelle lets out a laugh, and rests her head against the wall. If  _ Tally _ had noticed, then who’s to say that nobody else had? Her and Scylla aren’t exclusive, but it still feels strange. 

Especially since Raelle and Ceres have never kissed. But the Reel bound them together, didn’t it? And if Berryessa is to be believed, then the Reel knows all. It knows what Raelle  _ wants _ , and she craves. 

The thought is terrifying. 

The idle gossip stops the moment there’s a knock on the door, and Abigail gets up to answer it. Abigail opens it, and Raelle glances from her bunk to see who it is. 

“Oh, this is  _ definitely _ for Rae,” Abigail says, stepping to the side. It’s Ceres, dressed in a black tank and pants, belt buckle shining in the noonday light. Abigail sends a pointed look at Raelle, who quickly stands up. Abigail returns to her spot on the bed, and Raelle holds out her hand. Ceres is quick to take it. 

_ I need to talk to you, somewhere private where you won’t be heard,  _ Ceres says, her face completely serious, and she drops Raelle’s hand, the black mark disappearing instantly. Raelle glances behind her; Tally and Abigail are pretending to mind their business, but Raelle knows better. 

“Meet me in the training gym,” Raelle whispers. Ceres’s gaze flits, before she nods. Raelle shuts the door, and goes to pull her boots on. 

“Secret rendezvous with freakshow?” Abigail teases. 

“Stop that, Abigail! Raelle will tell us if she wants to,” Tally says. 

_ Least I know who's good cop and who’s bad cop, _ Raelle thinks tugging on her boots. She grabs her jacket and shrugs it on. 

“I’ll be back before training,” Raelle says. 

“Have fun!” Tally says. 

“Not too much! Don’t make us look bad!” Abigail follows, and Raelle flips them both off as she leaves the room. 

She jogs to the training gym; whatever Ceres needed, it sounded urgent, and Raelle has the decency to move fast. The training gym, when Raelle finally arrives, has a class going on, but Raelle spots Ceres in the back, resting on top of the sliding bleachers. She meets her up there. 

“What’s up, are you alright?” Raelle asks, the sound of the whips flying back and forth making for pleasant background noise. Ceres puts her hand on Raelle’s thigh, and Raelle feels that cool link form between them, a bridge to Ceres’s mind. 

_ It’s about Porter, _ Ceres says, keeping her gaze forward. Raelle’s neck nearly snaps with the speed of her head whipping to look at Ceres. 

“Porter?” Raelle whispers, stepping close. Ever since seeing him bleed out on the stone walkway, it’s been vision after vision, something that Raelle can’t piece together for the life of her. If Ceres knows something and can help Raelle put the puzzle together, then fuck it. She needs to know. 

_ I saw him after he died, in Limbo.  _ Ceres’s grip shifts. 

“Limbo? What the hell is that?” Raelle asks. Ceres licks her lips, then exhales. 

_ The realm between realms. The place you go when you die, but not the afterlife, _ Ceres explains. She then gestures with her other hand to her throat, where the scar is.  _ That’s where my voice is, Raelle. _

“What the fu—” Raelle pauses. “Your voice… is dead?” 

_ In a sense. Wonder why my hands are so cold? By all technicality, I’m dead,  _ Ceres continues, and Raelle leans back, letting the information run through her head. Another realm exists? Ceres’s voice is in her head again,  _ My body is still on Earth, but my voice isn’t.  _

“That’s so… I don’t even know what to say,” Raelle breathes, her mind going wild at the prospect of another world besides this one. Raelle looks back at Ceres. “So you saw Porter because he… he died?” 

_ I did. Souls of the recently dead pass through Limbo before going to the afterlife, and I guide them, make sure they get there.  _ Ceres looks down at where her palm touches Raelle’s thigh, and Raelle feels her heart skip a beat at the care in Ceres’s eyes.  _ If they’re not eaten by the Guardian. Story for another time.  _

“You better tell me later,” Raelle says, and Ceres holds her pinky up, wiggling it like a pinky promise. 

_ Anyway, Porter was there. He didn’t say much, but he said he was killed. Not a suicide, _ Ceres says, and Raelle inhales sharply. All of those visions— they mean something.

“I had a vision of him jumping out of a window, but…” Raelle trails off. This puzzle just went from being fifty pieces to a thousand. “Someone shoved him?” 

_ Likely. I couldn’t ask more, because my time in Limbo had run out and I had to ‘wake up’, in a sense. _

“But you’re sure?” 

Ceres tilts her head, her gaze as serious as Raelle’s ever seen it.  _ I’m sure.  _

“Ceres, this— this changes everything,” Raelle whispers. 

_ I know. But you deserve to know the truth. It’s the only way for justice. _

Raelle swallows the ball of nerves formed in her throat, before wrapping her arms around Ceres. Pieces begin to fall into place in Raelle’s mind, of everything she’s seen about Ceres. The reason why her skin is cold all the time, why she has no voice, and her connection to death. Ceres is the ferryman between life and death. 

The ferryman…

Raelle pulls away, her hands on Ceres’s shoulders. Ceres has her hands in a respectful place on her hips, an awkward position considering they're both sitting. Raelle whispers, “Have you heard of Project Charon?” 

Ceres swallows harshly, looking down and inhaling shakily. Her gaze is downcast as she replies,  _ From the time that I was born until age eight, I was Charon. I was that kid that every cadet here has heard about.  _

Raelle feels like she’s been hit with a shockwave, frozen in place with the revelation of the truth. “Alder…?” 

_ Tortured me for eight years. Kept me locked up.  _ Ceres looks away, a distant look in her eyes. Raelle puts her hand on top of Ceres’s, pulling her back to Earth. 

“You’re still human, Ceres,” Raelle whispers, face to face with the silent woman. Ceres looks at Raelle for a long time, like she’s deciphering the last piece of a tricky puzzle, before taking hold ofRaelle’s arm. The black marks come easily, lasting only seconds. 

_ Am I? Doesn’t feel like that, sometimes.  _

“You are. What happened to you in your childhood doesn’t define who you are now.” Raelle says, taking a strand of Ceres’s fawn brown hair and pushing it back. She looks intensely into Ceres’s eyes, and she feels the pull of the Reel again, even though it has been a day since the dance. “You’re human and  _ alive _ to me.” 

The smile that Raelle sees from Ceres makes her chest feel warm. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to comment and leave kudos! thank you for reading!


	6. the lady of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the bellweather wedding raises several questions and leaves several unanswered. good thing there's lobster and mini quiches to make up for it.

So yeah, Raelle is still left reeling after all of that. And that was  _ days _ ago. __

Today, she has to deal with something new entirely— the Bellweather Wedding. The Bellweathers, champions of High Atlantic Society, are hosting a wedding, which the Dean of War College will be attending. 

Important for Abigail. To Raelle, it just means free booze, delicious finger foods, and making fun of snooty people with Tally. She’d considered asking Abigail if she could take Scylla— but in the end, Raelle decided not to. She doesn’t want to spend a wedding with someone she barely knows. 

And to be very fair, Raelle almost asked if she could bring  _ Ceres _ . Raelle, again, decided not to. Raelle didn’t know how Abigail would react to Raelle asking a fellow shitbird (Abigail’s words) to the Bellweather wedding. 

“Don’t fuck it up, shitbird,” Abigail says to Raelle as they walk to the backyard of the estate, dressed in their formal uniforms, cords and all. 

“I- why me? Why do you never say that to Tally?” Raelle asks, only minorly offended. Honestly? She’s having to hold back laughter. 

“Because Tally respects the reason we’re here,” Abigail answers. Tally just shrugs, doing her best to not get in the middle of the conflict, but Raelle knows that sooner or later, Tally will have to mediate. 

“Raelle!” 

_ Scylla? _

Abigail grabs the back of Raelle’s arm, leaning her head down to hiss, “What the fuck is she doing here? Did you invite her?” 

A dozen feet or so away, Scylla is waving with a happy smile on her face. 

“No! I didn’t!” Raelle says, slapping Abigail’s hand away. “Just— just let me go take care of that.” 

“You better. I only invited you two to help impress the Dean,” Abigail says, fixing her bangs. “See you inside. Go get rid of the weirdo.” 

Raelle glares at Abigail before striding over. Scylla doesn’t seem to have noticed any part of the conversation (thankfully), and remains completely oblivious to it all. 

“Hi, baby,” Scylla says, hand already cupping Raelle’s cheek. Raelle slaps Scylla’s hand away, already a bit pissed off. 

“What are you doing here?!” Raelle whisper-shouts, eyes wide. “I didn’t ask you to come!” 

“Oh,” Scylla blinks. “Well, you were talking about it yesterday, and you sounded like you were dreading it, so I thought I would come and make it better.” 

“Scyl, no. I’m trying to help Abigail, and you being here isn’t helping that much,” Raelle says, running a fidgeting hand through her hair. 

Scylla frowns. “But… don’t you want me here?” 

Raelle purses her lips and inhales. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here, though.” 

Scylla steps away, her hands coming together to pick at her nails. Her voice is riddled with guilt when she speaks, “I’m sorry, I had no idea me coming would cause this much trouble for you. I’m so stupid, I should just go.” 

She moves to walk away, and Raelle shoots her hand out, grabbing Scylla’s hand. 

“No, stop,” Raelle says, closing her eyes. God, this is giving her a migraine only alcohol and chocolate covered fruits can solve. “You can stay, but just avoid Abigail. She’s not happy about you being here.” 

“Okay,” Scylla grins, peppy as ever again. “Promise.” 

“Thank you,” Raelle exhales. She drops Scylla’s hand, and turns to walk inside.  _ Somebody get me a flute of champagne, stat, _ Raelle thinks, straightening out her jacket as she steps through the doors. Abigail and Tally are up ahead, conversing politely with General Bellweather. When Abigail turns around, her face turns angry. 

Raelle looks over her shoulder, and there Scylla follows, like an obedient dog.  _ Well, fuck me, _ Raelle thinks. It’ll look awkward if she tells Scylla to leave when General Bellweather is watching; can’t do much to fix it. 

“This is Raelle Collar, my other teammate,” Abigail says, all politeness in her tone as she addresses the smattering of uniformed women and men. 

Scylla grabs Raelle’s hand, and Raelle wishes that Scylla would just  _ stop _ for a few seconds. Unfortunately, again, she can’t do much while being eyed by high ranking officers. 

“This is my friend, Scylla Ramshorn,” Raelle says, shifting to the side to put Scylla more into the spotlight of attention. Raelle can just see the steam coming out of Abigail’s ears, and she forces herself to keep composed.  _ Almost to the booze, Raelle. Almost there.  _

“Well, pleased to meet all of you,” General Bellweather says, hands folded in front of her. Her eyes shift to look past the unit and Scylla, and her eyes widen, nearly imperceptible if Raelle weren’t so focused on Bellweather instead of Scylla. “Lady Rosethorn is here.” 

Lady  _ who? _

Raelle turns around, and it feels like her heart stops in her chest. 

Dressed in the same uniform as the rest of the unit is Ceres, her shoulders impossibly broader and her hair tied back in various braids, pinned neatly without a single hair out of place. It’s a dramatic change from the Ceres at Fort Salem, with messy buns and loose ponytails. This Ceres is polished from head to toe, her boots more reflective than the waxed floors. And on her arm is an elderly woman, dressed in a United States Army uniform, glittering with pins and badges of honor. 

“Is that Ceres’s mom?” Raelle asks, and Abigail looks ready to slap her to shut her up. 

“Lady Rosethorn, I’m so glad you could make it today,” Petra says, taking the frail hand of Lady Rosethorn and shaking it. Petra continues talking, but really, Raelle just zones the fuck out because she’s looking at Cere. 

Ceres is wearing black gloves made of leather— or something like that— and she’s opted for the pressed black pants of the uniform, instead of the usual navy blue. She looks beyond distinguished, and Raelle is having a bit of a hard time taking her eyes off Ceres. 

And it seems like the reverse is true, judging by Ceres’s appraising look directed at Raelle.

“We’ll put a seat out for you in the backyard so you can sit, Lady Rosethorn,” Petra assures the wizened witch, and then they’re walking away. Ceres is helping Lady Rosethorn walk, but she spares a glance over her shoulder to lock eyes with Raelle. There’s the hint of a smile on Ceres’s lips, and it’s enough to make Raelle grin, just the tiniest bit. 

“Huh. Didn’t know freakshow was  _ that _ kind of Rosethorn,” Abigail whispers once the rest of the officers have gone away. Raelle looks at Abigail, puzzled. Abigail continues, “Lady Rosethorn was one of best officers during her time in the army. Never became a general, but a fantastic officer nonetheless.” 

“And Ceres is her kid?” Tally asks, the four of them moving outside. Raelle nabs a glass of booze from a waiter.  _ Finally. _

“Impossible. Ceres is eighteen and Lady Rosethorn is eighty nine. I might not be as well versed in lady parts as Raelle is, but I know for a fact that witches don’t produce children at that age,” Abigail says, pressing her hands to the table. Abigail tilts her head to the side. “But Lady Rosethorn  _ did _ have a child when she was younger, but she died before even being able to serve. That’s social suicide in the eyes of High Atlantic society.” 

“You guys have weird customs,” Raelle comments. Scylla is glued to her side, and as much as Raelle is angry for Scylla for simply showing up out of the blue… it is nice to have her there, at least. 

“Shove off, shitbird,” Abigail snaps back. 

“Wait, wait, so you think that Lady Rosethorn’s daughter is Ceres’s mother?” Tally says, connecting the dots with her finger as she sips her champagne. “And what did you mean by  _ that _ kind of Rosethorn?” 

Abigail purses her lips before shaking her head. “Timeline doesn’t match up. And what I meant was I didn’t know Ceres was High Atlantic. I thought she was from the Cession.” 

“That’s stereotyping,” Raelle points out. 

“And she’s nobility?” Tally, ever so curious, keeps asking questions. 

“A respect thing. The Rosethorns are a matriline descended from old French nobility, and as far as we’re concerned, they kept their titles,” Abigail answers. “So, Lady Rosethorn is what we call her.” 

Scylla is tugging on her hand, and when Raelle looks over, Scylla has puppy-eyes, clearly begging to go somewhere else. Raelle sighs and nods her head at Scylla, who nearly squeals and proceeds to drag Raelle elsewhere. 

“So much for sticking together,” Tally mutters. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

Ceres finds weddings pointless. 

What’s the big deal if the union only lasts for five years? What’s the point of making such a big deal about it if it’s only five years?

Ceres spends a lot of time between reality and Limbo, so a lot of  _ important _ witch traditions have turned into questionable events for her. Beltane, witch weddings… all of it is so  _ weird _ to her. Definitely because she’s half dead already. 

She shifts, watching a waiter go past with a tray of drinks. Obviously, she would grab one, if she weren’t watching over Lady Rosethorn. 

General Bellweather approaches with a few officers behind her. “Lady Rosethorn, I’d like to introduce you to a couple of my Majors.” 

“What’s your name again? Barbara?” Lady Rosethorn asks, and Ceres inhales, pressing her lips together as tightly as possible as to not bust out laughing, because who the fuck says that to a General of the United States Army? Good fucking lord. 

“Petra, Lady Rosethorn,” Petra says, smiling tightly. 

Lady Rosethorn turns to look up at Ceres, taking hold of Ceres’s arm. “Darling, go mingle. I can take care of myself.” 

Ceres tilts her head to the side, and Lady Rosethorn waves her. Ceres then bows politely to Petra and her officers, before walking away. 

And with that, Ceres grabs a drink from the appetizers table. Thank the goddess. For her first event in the eyes of high society, Ceres likes to think she’s performed remarkably well. No doubt Ceres, the witch with no voice, being seen with Lady Rosethorn will cause everyone at the event to gossip. But quite frankly, Lady Rosethorn simply doesn’t care. Neither does Ceres. 

Ceres nabs a mini quiche and pops it into her mouth.  _ Mm, rich people food. _

She wanders over to the edge of the dance floor, wondering how much longer she has to be here. Ceres would much rather be somewhere else doing… anything else. Is it obvious that Ceres isn’t a fan of high society events?

Hm. 

“I didn’t expect to find you at a place like this,” Raelle’s voice floats to Ceres’s ears, and Ceres feels a smile drift to her face as she turns. Raelle strides up to Ceres, and Ceres holds her drink out. Raelle clinks her drink to Ceres, before they both slam them back. “Enjoying the wedding?” 

Ceres shrugs, as if to say  _ could be better.  _

Raelle deposits her empty glass with a waiter, and Ceres does the same. “Too much drama.” 

Ceres cocks her head to the side, making her curiosity clear to Raelle. 

“Just… romantic problems, I guess. Fucking stupid stuff,” Raelle says, waving her hand. Ceres glances to the dance floor, then looks back at Raelle, offering her hand out. Dancing, as far as Ceres is concerned, is a good way to get her mind off of things. Granted, her version of dancing is when she’s in Limbo with no one but dead people to see her. 

She digresses. 

Raelle glances at Ceres hand, whispering, “Won’t people see the marks?” 

Ceres tugs on the glove, and Raelle nods in understanding. It takes little effort to convince Raelle after that, as the blonde takes Ceres’s hand with a smile, and off they go to the dancefloor. 

Ceres takes the lead, putting her left hand on Raelle’s waist at a polite spot, and holding Raelle’s hand into the air as they move along to the slow waltz playing. If it weren’t for Lady Rosethorn’s lessons in dancing and chivalry, Ceres would be a sitting duck. 

“This wedding has been… a lot for me,” Raelle says, pursing her lips. “Tally found out that Gerit’s engaged. Abigail’s still got a stick in her ass. And Scylla…” 

Ceres moves her hand and pulls her thumb out of the glove— the material of it prevents the black marks from showing, but unfortunately, it cancels out the linking that allows Ceres to communicate telepathically. Good for events like these, but not so good when she needs to talk to people. Good thing she only needs one part of her hand to touch someone and form that link. 

And by now, Raelle should (hopefully) be used to that cold feeling, an unfortunate side effect on Ceres’s end. Ceres presses her thumb to Raelle’s back, and the link clicks into place.

_ Trouble in paradise? _ Ceres asks. Maybe Raelle is on the brink of finding out about whatever Scylla’s plan is, if there even is one at all. The ‘job’ that Scylla has is something Ceres has thought about, but what would be the motive of getting someone to fall for you?

“Something like that,” Raelle whispers, head tilted back to look up at Ceres. “She doesn’t tell me anything. She’s been pushing me all day to go with her to some  _ beach _ when she shouldn’t even be here.” 

_ Is she pressuring you? _

“No…?” Raelle trails off, and she presses her forehead against the front of Ceres’s uniform. “Everything is just so fucking confusing.” 

_ I’m sorry, _ Ceres says, then shifts her grip on Raelle’s back.  _ What can I do?  _

And barely audible, Raelle whispers, “Hold me.” 

_ I can do that,  _ Ceres finishes, and Raelle rests her head on Ceres’s sternum. The music swells as they shift their feet closer, merely swaying from side to side now. Ceres wonders if Raelle is counting the inhumanly slow heartbeat in her own chest. Only fifteen beats per minute, once every four seconds. Death has touched Ceres in ways that seem strange, but to the untrained eye, Ceres is perfectly healthy. Minus the lack of vocal cords, of course. 

Ceres counts her heartbeats for herself, and smiles a little bit when it’s higher than normal. Twenty beats per minute, no doubt because of the blonde resting on her chest. 

She grips Raelle’s hand a little tighter, and Raelle squeezes back. The heat from Raelle feels odd on Ceres’s cold-to-the-bone skin, but it feels… nice. Feels human. Feels alive, if that makes any sense. 

Ceres has to remind herself from time to time that even in a room of thousands, she would be the only dead woman walking. Hell, in the entire country, Ceres would be the only outlier. She’s half  _ dead  _ for fucks sake— she has no clue if this makes her immortal, or if she’ll die of old age like anyone else. 

Minus Alder and her weird as hell biddies. 

Holding Raelle makes Ceres feel human instead of some weird abomination of witch and death. Holding Raelle… 

Ceres likes it. 

She moves her hand on Raelle’s back, and Raelle turns her head, looking up at her. Ceres wonders how it’s possible that Raelle’s eyes can look as iridescent as the feathers of a peacock, catching the light in such a way that it changes. 

Or maybe Ceres is reading too much into things, and she’s letting her walls down for nothing. But is it even possible to bring down the wall between Earth and Limbo?

Raelle looks like she's about to say something, but she doesn’t, and Ceres just smiles at her. Nothing has to be said, because that’s how Ceres lives. Silence is comforting, and Raelle is learning that. 

They hold each other's gaze as the music comes to an end, the waltz shifting into a more peppy dance. Ceres gives a grin to Raelle before stepping away and pulling the blonde into a spin to the beat of the music played by a live band. Raelle lets out a giggle— a  _ giggle _ — and Ceres quickly fixes her glove before dancing with Raelle. Ceres can feel Raelle’s mood lift into a better one as they spin around with the other wedding guests. 

Raelle is laughing by the time they walk off the dancefloor, tipsy from the amount of champagne they had between breaks and grinning like fools. 

Everything changes the moment they see balloons curling around the edge of the forest. 

The wedding goes into lockdown, with Petra and the other attending Generals and officers forming a blockade. Somehow, Anacostia finds them, with Tally hot on her heels. 

“Collar, help Craven get the civilians inside! Rosethorn, I need you to help me secure the perimeter!” Anacostia shouts over the noise of people screaming and the blockade of witches vocalizing. Ceres looks at Raelle for a split second, before breaking off to follow Anacostia as they run around the back of the house. 

Ceres peels off her gloves, shoving them into the pocket of her pants before pressing her hand to Anacostia’s shoulder.  _ What happened? _

Anacostia looks over her shoulder at Ceres. “Craven was in the bathroom and reported Ramshorn talking to a balloon.” 

_ Scylla? _ Ceres’s eyes are wide with shock, but as the pieces fall into place in her mind, it makes all the sense in the world. 

“My hunch about her was right from the beginning. It’s up to us to find her. Hopefully you’ve got a trick up your sleeve to help me out here, Ceres,” Anacostia says, pulling at the buttons of her uniforms. Ceres follows suit, tugging the collar loose as they dive into the forest, which Anacostia has deemed the only safe escape route from the bathroom Scylla just left. 

Ceres hates to think this, but she  _ knew _ something was up with Scylla, ever since the beginning when Scylla thought Ceres was watching her, and the  _ job _ that she had. If Scylla was working with the Spree, then there’s something more at work here. 

“There!” Anacostia shouts, pointing ahead where Scylla is sprinting through branches and foliage. “I’ll charge ahead, you cut her off from flank!” 

Ceres splits off from Anacostia, grabbing her scourge from her hip and readying it as she hops over a log. Scylla might be smaller, but Ceres has experience running from things too (the Guardian of Limbo can be a nasty asshole). 

Easily, Ceres weaves around Scylla to attack her from the side, while Anacostia whips from the back. Anacostia snaps her scourge forward, wrapping it around Scylla’s ankle. The Necro falls flat onto her stomach, but pushes off the scourge and gets back to her feet. 

Ceres whips her arm, sending the scourge flying until it grazes Scylla, throwing her off balance. Scylla whirls, opening her mouth and letting out a fearsome screech that sends a windstrike towards Ceres. 

Ceres goes flying through the air, her back slamming against a tree, and she lands on the dirt with a violent  _ thud.  _ Pain blossoms from the base of her spine, but she braces herself against the dirt and gets up. 

She’ll be damned if she lets a Spree get the best of her. Ceres grabs her scourge from the dirt, and readies it in her hand. Walking forward, Ceres ignores the blood running down her back from the jagged bark that cut her uniform clean through. 

Anacostia and Scylla are engaged in a deadly battle, Scylla defending herself with windstrikes, and Anacostia deflecting them with her own arsenal of seed songs. Ceres works her way until she’s close to the Spree woman. Anacostia goes in again, the scourge wrapping around Scylla’s wrist, and Ceres takes her opening. 

Ceres drops her scourge and shoots her hands forward. She wraps them around Scylla’s throat and pulls the threads of Limbo from her chest and shoves them into Scylla’s mind through the link. Scylla’s eyes flash a ghastly white as she inhales, then slumps over onto the ground. 

“What the hell was that?” Anacostia asks, coiling her scourge. She holds out her hand for Ceres, who takes it and quickly answers. 

_ I gave her a dosage of fear, enough to knock her out,  _ Ceres says, then pulls her hand away. She looks down to Scylla, who is crumpled on the ground with a furious black mark on her neck. That’ll fade in a few hours, give or take. Ceres exhales, leaning down to pick Scylla up. 

“Thank you, Ceres,” Anacostia says, binding Scylla’s wrists with a pair of cuffs before they walk back through the forest. “I don’t know what happens now, but know that you’re too involved to pull away now.” 

Ceres nods. 

“And for what it’s worth, Rosethorn? I could’ve used you a dozen deployments ago,” Anacostia says, a slight smile on her face. “Let’s get back to Fort Salem and get you checked out.” 

Ceres rolls her eyes, but laughs anyway. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can't tell already, raylla isn't endgame in this fic. anyway, thanks for reading and don't forget to leave a kudos!


	7. take my hand, follow me under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath of the bellwether wedding hits raelle harder than anything. alder enlists anacostia's help to weed out information, and the sergeant turns to ceres for help. by the end, raelle wants to go under.

_ Raelle _

“Tally, they’ve been in there for  _ hours _ ,” Raelle says, pacing the length of the hallway. By now, her boots have almost worn a hole into the floor, right outside the administrative offices. 

Abigail has been in an interview for an hour. Anacostia and Ceres have been getting debriefed by one of the generals for three hours. Scylla is nowhere to be seen. And, at the beginning of it, Tally was getting debriefed too. The whole time, Raelle was outside, basically ripping off her nails in nerves. Raelle broke down crying when Tally came out from her debrief, because she had been nervous and anxious since the end of the wedding. 

Charvel Bellweather murdered. Balloons everywhere. Scylla’s corsage on the ground, smashed to pieces. Raelle couldn’t even pick it up because of how crushed it was. Scylla  _ gone.  _

Raelle might be falling out of love with Scylla, but she still cares. 

“Raelle, Rae, it’s okay. Debriefings take a long time, especially with all that happened,” Tally says, stepping into Raelle’s path to try and get her to stop pacing. Raelle just moves around her and keeps on pacing, her hands shaking. 

“What did they tell you?” This is the fifth time Raelle has asked, and Tally just closes her mouth. Raelle curses, running a hand through her hair. 

“They’re going to tell us soon,” Tally assures, and Raelle sighs. 

“When?! When are they going to tell me what the fuck is going on?!” Raelle shouts, her voice echoing off the walls. Fort Salem has been remarkably quiet since the Bellweather wedding and the events that transpired during it. Understandably so— people were killed. 

Raelle is beyond worried about Abigail— the youngest Bellweather had been stabbed with a knife during a fight. Her friend was hurt. And Ceres… 

Ceres ran off and Raelle hasn’t seen her since. 

“Where is she?!” Raelle hisses. 

“Who?” Tally asks, her voice quiet. 

“Ceres. She— She disappeared after you and I went to go help people and I don’t know where she is and if she’s okay or—” 

Tally is gripping Raelle’s arms, shaking her back to Earth. “Rae, you and I watched her and Anacostia go to secure the perimeter when it all started. And you know Anacostia would do anything to keep us safe. You know that.” 

Raelle hiccups as sobs begin to hit her, slowly at first. When Tally wraps her arms around Raelle, the blonde barely has it in her to hug back. Tally is a pillar of strength that keeps Raelle grounded. 

It’s all been so  _ much _ , in the space of a few hours. Scylla completely ditching her after she refused to go to the beach. Dancing with Ceres and feeling warmth bloom in her chest in the cold woman’s embrace. There’s panic and sorrow and worry everywhere in Raelle’s chest, and if she doesn’t find out where both of them are soon, she may combust. 

For all Raelle knows, they could both be dead. 

Abigail is suffering, too. Raelle knows that the de facto leader of the Bellweather unit will put up a wall and cry when no one is looking, and it pains Raelle. It hurts Raelle to no end to know that her friend is in misery. Her cousin was killed, and she had to fight off Spree by herself before her mom got there to help. 

It’s too much. 

Raelle holds onto Tally’s jacket, staining the cord epaulettes with snot and tears, but Tally doesn’t even comment about it, just hugging Raelle tighter until the sobs subside enough and Raelle pulls herself together by a thin thread. 

The door into the office opens, and out steps Anacostia. 

“Collar, Craven,” Anacostia says, her voice gentle. “We need you in the office.”

There’s some minor relief at seeing Anacostia, but Raelle is still swimming in worry.

But this is the first thing to happen in hours. Raelle lets go of Tally and walks into the office quickly. She needs to know. 

Inside the office, a feeling of pure relief courses through Raelle, because Ceres is sitting on a bench, her uniform jacket tossed to the side. She’s hunched over, her elbows on her knees, but her head pulls up at the sound of the door closing and Raelle and Tally entering. 

“Oh my god,” Raelle exhales, sprinting and crossing the small space of the office in a millisecond. A small, relieved smile comes onto Ceres’s face and Raelle wraps her arms around Ceres tightly, only to freeze when she feels dried blood beneath her palms. Ceres hisses.

Raelle pulls away, looking over to see scratches all over Ceres’s back, a patchwork of angry crimson lines of blood dried and caked with dirt, her tank top ripped beyond belief. 

“What happened to you?” Raelle whispers, and Ceres puts her hand on Raelle’s hip. 

_ Got windstriked into a tree. Not my finest moment,  _ Ceres says, her voice chipper and nonchalant, but she grimaces as she stands up. Her hand drifts up to Raelle’s side, briefly skirting over her stomach before pulling away. Raelle holds tightly to Ceres’s arm. 

The general in attendance leaves the room, oddly enough, and Anacostia walks around to stand behind the desk. Anacostia places her hand on the back of the desk chair, her eyes serious. They lock on Raelle’s. 

“What is said in this room does not leave, am I understood?” Anacostia demands, surveying the room. Tally nods rapidly, and Ceres only nods once, looking like she’s about to pass out, leaning heavily on Raelle. 

“Let me heal you, Ceres,” Raelle whispers, prompting the conversation to stop. Ceres touches Raelle’s hand briefly. 

_ You can’t heal a dead person,  _ Ceres says, a tone of regret in her words. 

“Can I continue, cadets?” Anacostia says, her voice firm, but she’s cautious. Ceres breaks her connection, and Raelle looks at Anacostia. “At the wedding, Craven came to me, panicked. She told me some critical information, and then it all went to shit. But, Collar, this…” 

Anacostia trails off for the first time since Raelle met her. 

“Scylla Ramshorn is a Spree operative,” Anacostia says plainly, blunt and straightforward. 

“Scylla?” Raelle whispers. Anacostia nods once. “No, this can’t— this doesn’t make  _ sense. _ ” 

Raelle feels lightheaded, but Ceres is right there, stabilizing her with a hand on her back.

“Rosethorn has provided intel that proves it, as did Craven. But the most damning evidence of all was Ramshorn running away from the wedding,” Anacostia says, thumping her finger on the leather chair. “I’m sorry, Collar, but she’s been apprehended in connection with the terrorist attack against the Bellweathers.” 

Raelle looks between Tally and Ceres, who look at her with everything Raelle needs to know. It’s the truth. It’s undoubtedly the truth. 

Raelle nearly collapses onto the bench, and Ceres kneels next to her, hand on Raelle’s thigh. 

_ I’m so sorry, Raelle, _ Ceres says, heartfelt emotion seeping through the link formed between their minds.  _ I’m so sorry.  _

“I loved her,” Raelle chokes, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. Anacostia looks down, pursing her lips. 

Tally comes over and hugs Raelle tightly, and Ceres keeps her hand on Raelle, the link between them providing unspoken support.

“When can I see her?” Raelle whispers, her voice shattered like broken glass. 

Anacostia inhales, and shakes her head. “I’m not allowing it. It’s an ongoing investigation best left to the higher ups, Collar.” 

“She’s—” 

“I said no, Raelle,” Anacostia cuts her off firmly. “I’m ordering the Bellweather unit a day off from training with the cadets. That goes for you too, Rosethorn.” 

“We should go, Raelle,” Tally whispers. 

Raelle feels numbness creep into her bones, and she barely remembers standing up. Tally is holding her up almost, and Ceres’s hand has disappeared. Raelle glances over her shoulder and Ceres is looking at her, a pained expression on her face. 

All Raelle wants to do is sleep. 

~~~~~

_ Anacostia _

It’s almost admirable, the way Scylla throws the plate of broken glass at General Alder’s feet, blood dripping down her lips and a maniacal smile on her face. If Anacostia didn’t know any better, she’d say Scylla had a decent chance. 

But truly, there’s no way of escaping Alder. There’s only one person Anacostia knows that has ever escaped, but even she came back eventually. That’s an entirely different story, though.

Anacostia keeps her arms folded primly behind her back as Scylla surges forward, the chains snapping taut and keeping her bound to the chair. 

“You won’t get  _ anything _ from me,” Scylla hisses, grinning like a wild animal. Blood has stained her teeth pink, and the dim lighting of the room shows the bruises from the fight clearly on her skin. Around her neck, there’s black marks— once bold, now slightly faded, able to be passed off as healing bruises. 

Alder sighs, annoyance clear on her expression as she rolls her shoulders back. “All witches break sooner or later, Ramshorn. You will confess, and you will be sentenced.” 

Scylla laughs, and Anacostia genuinely wonders if the young witch has lost her mind. 

Alder turns around, her mouth set in a hard line as they walk out of the jail cell, Scylla’s laughter echoing until the door shuts. Anacostia follows Alder through the hallways of the Necropolis wordlessly, keeping three paces behind the General until they break out into daylight. The biddies swarm the General like bees to honey, and Alder stops. 

“Quartermaine, I want information,” Alder says, meeting Anacostia’s gaze. “Ramshorn will not slip out of our grip. You obtain that information and her confession at any cost. Am I understood?”

Anacostia nods resolutely, an idea already forming in her head. Content, Alder steps away, biddies following in pace behind her. Anacostia watches them go, before turning away. 

Alder wants a confession, then she’ll get one. But Anacostia needs help. And she needs evidence straight from Scylla herself. 

Or maybe… 

Anacostia changes her path to the Necro dorms. 

When she arrives, she ascends the stairwell to the third floor, and reaches the room at the end of the hallway. Anacostia knocks on the door and waits. A few seconds go by, then some more, until it’s stretched into a full minute. She knocks again. 

No response. 

Sighing, Anacostia pulls the keyring off her hip and slides the correct one into the lock. She twists it, and pushes the door open. 

Ceres is there, only her arms are bound to chains and her eyes are glazed over, a pure ghastly white. Anacostia walks into the room, closing the door with her boot. 

“Ceres,” Anacostia says, snapping her fingers a few times in front of the cadet’s face. Anacostia kneels down to Ceres’s level, staring at her unmoving eyes. She flicks Ceres on the nose, and the woman blinks. Her eyes return to their normal brown state, and Ceres looks annoyed. 

Anacostia stands, watching as Ceres gets up from her feet and unlocks the chains on her wrists. “Hate to wake you up from your nap, but I need a favor from you.” 

Ceres raises her brow. 

“What you did the other day with Scylla, knocking her out, giving her nightmares,” Anacostia describes, and Ceres nods along, understanding it. “I need you to do it again. Lower her walls enough so that I can get in and see her memories long enough to confirm that she’s Spree.” 

There’s a long exhale from Ceres, and her lips purse. She taps her hand on the chain in her palms, before sighing. 

“You’ll do it?” Anacostia asks. 

Ceres nods once, passing by Anacostia to put her hand on the sergeants shoulder.  _ I’ll do it, but Alder has to be there.  _

Anacostia’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. “The General?” 

_ Let Alder see what she missed, hm? _ Ceres has the smallest smirk on her lips, enough to make Anacostia proud.  _ Find me when you need me. _

“I will, Ceres,” Anacostia says. With that, the sergeant leaves the room. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

The look on Alder’s face when Ceres comes strolling down the halls of the Necropolis is nothing short of pure shock, and Ceres revels in it. Anacostia walks next to Ceres, and by the time they reach the door to Scylla’s dungeon, Alder looks  _ furious _ . 

“What is this weakling doing here, Quartermaine?” Alder spits out, the biddies behind her collectively hissing like snakes in Ceres’s direction. What’s their problem? Ceres makes a note to buy them all snakeskin cowboy hats. It would match well with the uniform. 

“She’s here to help get the confession, General,” Anacostia replies, entirely unruffled by the harshness of the General’s tone. “Unless, you object?” 

Alder goes silent, before stepping back.

_ Checkmate, bitch, _ Ceres thinks as Anacostia unlocks the bolt holding the door closed, and pushes it open. Ceres strides past Alder, shoulders pulled back and chin held high. 

Inside the dungeon, lights on the floor cast a glow that showcases the dampness and the mold growing along the cracks in the bricks. Not the most pleasant place to be, but perfect for a Spree. 

“What’s she doing here?” Scylla visibly bristles in the chair, the chains clinking against the metal armrests. Ceres cracks her knuckles, one by one, and Scylla swallows. 

“You have two options, Ramshorn. You tell us everything now, and you don’t get hurt. Or—” Anacostia looks at Ceres, who cracks her neck to either side, the bones popping loudly and echoing in the cramped dungeon. “You deal with her.” 

Scylla straightens, putting on a facade, “You’ll have to try harder than throwing a weakling at me, Quartermaine.” 

“Hard ball, hm?” Anacostia hums. She looks at Ceres, and Ceres looks back. “Have your fun.” 

Alder has stepped into the room now, arms folded behind her and watching with a critical eye as Ceres rounds on Scylla. Scylla looks up until the collar around her neck pulls her back, and Ceres is standing behind her. Ceres looks Alder dead in the eye, before pressing her hands to Scylla’s shoulders. 

The link snaps into place, and Ceres braces her feet against the floor, delving past the barriers in Scylla’s mind, searching for what she needs. The essence of nightmares reminds Ceres of a black sludge that can only be found in the deepest recesses of a mind. Sometimes it’s harder. Sometimes it’s easier. 

But Scylla…

Scylla muffles a scream as Ceres yanks on the first tendril from that dark cesspool in Scylla’s mind, trying to stay quiet as the black sludge is dragged to the forefront. Ceres moves her hand to the sides of Scylla’s face, black marks following like burns from a nuclear fallout. Scylla lets out a blood curdling scream as Ceres brings up every single nightmare Scylla’s ever had. It all passes through Ceres’s mind, visions of death and terrors that flash in the blink of an eye, but it’s all in Scylla’s mind, playing out frame by frame. 

Alder glares, and Ceres grits her teeth, pressing the nightmares harder, pushing them slowly towards the brink. Before, it was a nightmare enough to get Scylla to pass out. But this? This is making Scylla watch everything, but pulling away before Scylla can get the reprieve of unconsciousness. It’s the long game, making Scylla suffer before Anacostia can link and get her information. 

But as much as Ceres knows this is what she was born to do, she doesn’t enjoy it. 

Memories begin leaking through the bond as Scylla’s mental walls begin crumbling, reduced to mere gravel by the force of nightmares. Ceres sees the suffering of a young Scylla, constantly moving from place to place to avoid the army coming for her parents. Ceres witnesses the death of Scylla’s parents, and the loss of control. 

Control. 

Ceres didn’t have that in her earliest years. Ceres didn’t know what control was from birth to age eight, because she was locked up in a dungeon much like this one, wires jammed into her veins. From birth to age eight, Ceres’s only purpose was to serve Alder. To be an endless well of power that would make Alder invincible. 

For eight years, Ceres was Charon, and nothing else. 

Ceres pushes one more nightmare through before she pulls her hands away. The sound of Scylla's screams echo in her ears as Ceres looks down at her hands. Smoke wafts off of her palms and makes it hard to see the angry black marks shining on Scylla's skin. 

“Please! Please, make it stop!” Scylla shouts, her voice raw and tears of pain flooding down her cheeks like a roaring river. Anacostia takes her window of opportunity, pressing her hand to Scylla’s head. “I did it! Okay, I did it! Make it stop! Make it  _ stop!”  _

The essence of nightmares is a nasty fellow. Ceres is glad she made friends with it when she was younger. 

The power in her simmers, and she feels fatigued. Her knees almost buckle.

But Ceres doesn’t falter, not when Alder is right there. 

Anacostia clears her throat. “I got her confession, and the memory evidence, General Alder. Scylla Ramshorn is a Spree.” 

There’s a feeling of relief within Ceres, knowing that her work wasn’t fruitless. Alder is steaming from her ears. 

Scylla is sobbing when Ceres leaves the dungeon. Raw power is stirring inside her chest, and Ceres wills it to calm, to slide a metaphorical lid on top of the cauldron. 

The panic on Alder’s face was pure gold. Ceres wasted eight years of her life indentured to Alder, and then was nearly dissected when she died.

Ceres hadn’t really died that night. Her body did, but her mind hadn’t. Her soul hadn’t. Her voice was still in Limbo, and once Ceres found it, she came back. Being resurrected from the dead is complicated— namely because the Guardian makes it hard. 

But Ceres had come back anyway. She came back for a reason. 

To show Alder that she’s not weak. She’s not powerless because she has no voice. 

Her powers are just in another realm. In another existence. 

Ceres ignores the screams that echo from the dungeon of the Necropolis, and goes on her way. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

It’s dark, and Raelle is shivering when she wakes up, a breeze on her skin that feels damp. 

“Raelle,” A voice calls out, and it sounds blurry, fogged out. Raelle blinks, feeling weary as she raises her head. “Raelle.” 

It’s Scylla. 

Raelle shoots upward, but the headache forming in the front of her skull begs to differ, as she groans. 

“Oh my god,” Raelle chokes out as her eyes land on the chains clamping Scylla down. “This… what are they doing to you?” 

“Listen, Raelle, they’re going to tell you things,” Scylla’s panic is obvious by her hurried voice, the chains pulling taut as she leans forward. Raelle crawls,rising to her knees and gently cupping her hands on Scylla’s face. “Promise me you won’t believe them.  _ Promise _ me.”

Raelle just chokes out another sob, before leaning forward and pressing her lips to Scylla’s, tears going down her cheeks. Scylla kisses back, before pulling away to whisper through tears, “Don’t let them tell you lies about me, please.” 

“Why…?” Raelle puts her hands on the chains, before her hands gravitate to the black marks. They’ve faded to a dark grey, but they’re stark in the white light of the dungeon. 

“They want something I can’t give them,” Scylla says, sniffling and squeezing Raelle’s hand tightly. 

“I don’t understand—” 

“You don’t have to, just don’t believe them,” Scylla whispers, barely managing to pull the chain enough to touch Raelle’s cheek. “I’m so sorry for not telling you. I’m so sorry.” 

Raelle kisses Scylla again, the tears salty on their lips. The sound of metal clinking bounces off the walls of the quiet dungeon cell. 

“Ceres hurt me. They used her to torture me,” Scylla says. “She made me see all of these awful things to try and get me to tell them things. She’s not a good person, Raelle, I’m being framed.” 

Raelle’s knees buckle, and she puts her head to Scylla’s chest, gripping onto her shirt tightly. 

“I’ve done bad things, but Ceres has done worse. She killed Porter, she made it look like I did it,” Scylla spews, the words all tumbling out at once. “I’ve never hurt anyone, I’ve never done anything to hurt you, I—” 

“Tell me the truth, Scyl,” Raelle whispers, her voice cracked. “Please.” 

Scylla falters. “I… Rae—”

“You never tell me anything, tell me,  _ please, _ ” Raelle begs, grabbing Scylla’s face again and kissing her as hard and as long as possible, before she breaks away to gasp for air. 

Scylla stares at Raelle, whispering, “I’ve done things, but because I had no option, I had no control, there was nothing else for me to do. I’m not a bad person, they’re making me look like a murderer.” 

“What did you do?” Raelle pulls away, and Scylla follows, up until the chains pull her back. 

“I love you, Raelle Collar,” Scylla admits quickly. 

“What did you do?” Raelle says again, more insistently. 

Scylla swallows, her fingers bunched into tight fists. “I turned to the Spree a long time ago for help.” 

Raelle backs away, rising to her feet. Her face morphs into one of anguish… then peace. “So it is true.” 

“W— what?” Scylla stutters. 

The dungeon door grinds against the stone floor as it’s pushed open, allowing for Anacostia to step in, followed closely by Ceres. Immediately, Scylla lashes out. 

“She’s the one who did it, she  _ hurt _ me!” Scylla shouts, panicked eyes directed at Ceres, who merely sighs. 

“No, Scyl, you’ve got it all wrong,” Raelle says, accepting the blanket that Ceres drapes around her shoulders. She leans close to Ceres, pressing against the taller woman. “Ceres is stronger than you. She wouldn’t turn to the Spree.” 

Not after eight years of being tortured. Ceres has gone through enough torture to last a lifetime. Raelle knows that. Ceres came out stronger, and instead of giving into the evil of The End, she crawled back to her feet and kept going. 

“Collar, Rosethorn, you’re dismissed. Thank you for the assist,” Anacostia says, looking rightly smug as she approaches Scylla. Ceres gently guides Raelle away, her touch light, and Raelle can see the mix of pain and fury as clear as day on Scylla’s face

“I could have loved you, Scylla!” Raelle shouts as they turn to leave, and she can see the flash of hurt in Scylla’s eyes. “If you hadn’t kept yourself locked away!” 

“You’re dismissed,” Anacostia repeats, and Ceres’s hand becomes more insistent in leading Raelle away.

Scylla is sobbing. “Raelle,  _ please—”  _

But they’re gone, and the door is sliding shut, locking Scylla Ramshorn away. Raelle shudders, curling her head tighter into Ceres as they walk in the hallways of the Necropolis. 

_ You did good,  _ Ceres says, her hand on the small of Raelle’s back providing comfort.  _ Thank you for helping Anacostia. _

“I had to see it for myself,” Raelle whispers as they reach a part in the hallway that breaks off into a private room. They step in, and Ceres hands Raelle her clothes. “I had to see that Scylla was lying.” 

Ceres’s hand touches her hip lightly.  _ I’m sorry.  _

“She’s dead to me,” Raelle says, and Ceres’s eyebrows raise. Raelle gives the blanket back, and Ceres turns around politely. “I feel like I’ve known for a long time.” 

The only indication that Ceres is listening is the slight head tilt. 

“I just didn’t want to accept it,” Raelle admits as she pulls on her pants. As she buckles her belt, she sighs. “I guess I wanted to be loved that badly.” 

Ceres extends her arm out backward, palm up, and Raelle reaches out. 

_ You are loved. Your family loves you. Your friends love you.  _

“Am I?” Raelle asks, dropping her hand to tug on her shirt. She tucks it into her pants, and Ceres spares a quick glance. Ceres turns around, and she’s got a small frown on her face. Raelle looks down to her boots, collecting herself. 

Ceres’s hand finds hers again.  _ If Bellweather doesn’t love you, I’ll eat my scourge.  _

Raelle lets out a small laugh, and Ceres smiles. 

In her mind, Raelle runs through everything that’s happened since coming to Fort Salem. She’s met her teammates who have easily become family, and Anacostia. 

And Ceres. 

What was it Berryessa said? ‘Let the Reel guide you’?

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Raelle whispers. 

_ Abigail and Tally will be there,  _ Ceres responds, thumb running over Raelle’s knuckles. 

“Take me to Limbo,” Raelle asks, and Ceres blinks. “You say you can talk there, that it’s beautiful. Take me there.” 

Ceres swallows, head tilting.  _ Are you sure? _

And Raelle repeats, “I don’t want to be alone.”

_ Okay, _ Ceres exhales, and takes Raelle away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, edited and proofread by jess. don't forget to leave a comment and drop a kudos! thank you for reading!


	8. the other side of the coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ceres takes raelle under to limbo. afterwards, ceres admits the truth to something that changes everything entirely.

Raelle takes careful note that Ceres is quiet the entire time they walk from the Necropolis to the dorms, but she holds Raelle’s hand anyway. In the time they spent in the dungeons, the day had turned to night, and they likely missed dinner with everyone else. But, neither of them give much pause about it. 

Raelle squeezes Ceres’s hand, and Ceres squeezes back. 

The dorms are ahead, and only then does Ceres let go. Raelle looks down to her palm, and smiles when she sees the black mark shimmering, before it disappears. 

Ceres leads Raelle to her dorm, and opens it up. 

The inside is clean, with the bed pressed against the wall and on the other, a pair of chains are bolted to the wall, with cuffs hanging from them. Raelle looks at Ceres for an explanation, and Ceres just touches her elbow to say,  _ I’ll explain later.  _

Ceres shrugs off her jacket and tosses it onto the desk, before kneeling down to pull off her boots. So, Raelle follows suit, curious to see how Ceres even goes to the other side. 

Ceres opens a drawer from her desk and pulls out two pairs of dull handcuffs, heavy and clinking against each other as she moves to the bed. Raelle’s eyes widen when Ceres cuffs her wrist then the other end to the bed. The bed doesn’t budge when Ceres tugs on the cuff, and Raelle now feels extremely awkward watching this. 

With a gesture to come closer, Ceres smiles softly at Raelle. Raelle sits, and Ceres grabs her hand with no hesitation. 

_ It’s to keep my bond to the Earth in place. I have to be physically tied down to something or someone to keep my body from dying while I’m in Limbo,  _ Ceres explains, wiggling her fingers. She looks at the other cuff.  _ Do you trust me? _

“Yeah. I do,” Raelle says, following Ceres’s line of thought, and does it before Ceres can even try. Raelle puts the cuff around her wrist snugly, before snapping the other end on Ceres’s other wrist. 

_ Lay down with me.  _ Ceres leans back, propping her pillow up. Raelle shifts until she’s snug against Ceres, their hands touching over Ceres’s heart, and Raelle snuggles against her. The cold skin feels refreshing, and Raelle looks up at Ceres.  _ You ready? _

“What do I do?” Raelle whispers, and Ceres smiles. 

_ Nothing. You just sit tight, close your eyes, and breathe, okay? _

“Okay,” Raelle says, and she shuts her eyes. She inhales, and exhales. 

There’s a clinking of cuffs from above, and Raelle goes under. 

~~~~~

When her eyes open, she’s somewhere completely new, and it’s so  _ big.  _

Raelle pushes herself off the gray-hued dirt, wiping it off on her pants before sparing a look around. 

It’s empty for miles and miles; just flat, barren ground. 

“Hey.” 

Raelle whirls at the sound of the voice, and a few feet away, she sees Ceres walking toward her, grinning. 

“Is that…?” Raelle trails off, gesturing to her mouth. 

“Yeah, that’s my voice,” Ceres says, holding her arms out to the side. “Hope it doesn’t sound weird.” 

“No, no, it doesn’t,” Raelle assures her. “It’s… really nice, actually. Say something else?” 

“Welcome to Limbo,” Ceres says, spreading her arm out. Raelle can’t help it, as she surges forward and jumps. Ceres barely manages to catch her in time for the tight hug, and Ceres’s laughter is a deep, rumbling noise that sounds like liquid gold being poured.

Ceres in Limbo sounds so  _ different _ from Ceres in reality. Here, Ceres has a pitch. Normally, the emotion would come from Ceres’s expression, the only way to even tell what the meaning is behind her words. Here, Raelle doesn’t have to look, because the words are just as expressive as Ceres’s face is. 

“This is where I spend ten hours of every single day.” Ceres says, placing Raelle back down on the ground.

Raelle looks at the dirt beneath her boots. “Every day?” 

“Yup,” Ceres says, popping the ‘p’ before shoving her hands into her pockets and walking aimlessly around. “I can’t sleep, so this is where I go.” 

“You’ve never  _ slept? _ ” Raelle is slack jawed, but Ceres just shrugs. 

“Sleeping is for chumps.” 

“You’re a chump,” Raelle says, shoving Ceres to the side. Ceres laughs, and there it is again, that sound that Raelle wants to hear again and again. “This place is… empty as hell.” 

“Yeah. Oh, watch out for the souls,” Ceres says, jerking her thumb behind her. Raelle leans to look, and a few dozen feet away is a human, bumbling around at a slow pace, eyes trapped in a trance. “They’re finding their way to the afterlife.” 

“So they just wander?” Raelle asks, watching with rapt attention as Ceres walks over to the soul, and presses them in a certain direction. 

“Most of the time,” Ceres says, guiding the soul along for a few seconds before letting go. The soul continues onward in that direction only, and Ceres turns around. “I guide them. Sometimes they get lost, and it’s up to me to help them.” 

“How do you know where to help them go?” Raelle walks towards Ceres, and Ceres scrunches her face. 

“It’s a feeling, in my chest. Like how people say to follow your heart? Like that, except I tell them where to go, and they go,” Ceres says, rubbing her hands together. “Hopefully, they get to the gate. If they don't make it in time before it shuts, then it’s onto the next gate.” 

“How do you know when a new one opens?” Raelle glances around, trying to find anything relatively  _ gate-shaped _ in the surrounding area. Nothing sticks out, minus a few wandering souls. 

“Two bells. You’ll hear it when it happens,” Ceres replies. She turns to face Raelle entirely, and grins. “So? Where do you wanna go?” 

“Sorry?”

“Where do you wanna go? Limbo doesn’t always look like this, you know,” Ceres says, doing a small spin. “Tell me. What do you want to see?” 

Raelle pauses, eyes staring off into the horizon. “I want to see a pond, with a waterfall, and the clearest water possible, surrounded by the tallest trees imaginable.” 

Ceres’s eyes brighten. “Sounds beautiful.” 

Before Raelle can open her mouth to reply, Ceres is leaning down, fingers pressing the ground until it begins to shake, a vibration that grows in tempo until Raelle can feel it travel from her boots all the way up to her head. 

The ground begins to dip, and right before Raelle’s eyes, water springs from the dirt as it turns into an earthen brown, rocks and pebbles sprouting up like plants. Ceres presses her hands harder, and more water begins to flow into what soon becomes a pond. A hump of dirt rises from the ground, molding into stone until it arches over the pond, water flowing down from a waterfall. 

Raelle grins, watching saplings pop up, growing rapidly and maturing until they’re towering hundreds of feet high in the sky, all green leaves swaying in the wind. Undergrowth and foliage bloom, flowers waving their hellos with their fresh petals. Ceres stands up, her hands held out and fingers flexed. Raelle doesn’t even realize Ceres is singing a song until she looks at her mouth moving, vocalizing dirt into life. 

Then, Ceres stops, and Raelle is simply in awe. Birds are chirping and nearby, some deer are grazing on leaves, before springing away into the woods. 

“That was amazing,” Raelle says, a laugh of disbelief leaving her as she turns to Ceres. 

“This is what makes Limbo beautiful, Raelle. I’ve visited snowy mountains, sandy beaches, perfect oases,” Ceres begins, light twinkling her deep brown eyes that look so much like the bark of the redwood trees around them. “I’m not trapped in real life, because here… I see what I imagine. I see everything.” 

“I feel jealous if this is what you get to do every time you come here,” Raelle says, leaning down to stroke the delicate petals of a rose. 

“I’ve never been here with anyone else, Raelle,” Ceres says, kneeling down. “You’re the first person I’ve brought with me.” 

“Really?” 

“Honest,” Ceres says. “I’ve never trusted anyone before. Not in the way I trust you.” 

Raelle’s heart skips a beat, and she looks up at Ceres. There’s a fondness in Ceres’s eyes that Raelle adores. 

Ceres raises the rose. “Have I ever told you the meaning behind my last name?” 

“Rosethorn?” 

“Mhm. An old saying within the family,” Ceres says. “A rose is beautiful, but be careful how you grasp it, as there are thorns.” 

Ceres pulls her hand away to reveal nicks from the thorns on her palm, but they heal within seconds. Ceres snaps the head of the rose off the stem, and places it in Raelle’s hair gently. 

“A rose without the rose is just a stem and thorns,” Ceres says, running her finger over the pricks. 

Raelle hums, touching the rose now on the side of her head with a smile. 

“So,” Ceres stands up, dropping the stem onto the ground, where it sinks back into the dirt. “Wanna dive in?” 

She gestures to the pond, where the watering pouring from the waterfall crashes against the clear surface, making for pleasant noise. 

“Last one is the rotten egg!” Raelle says, already pulling off her shirt. Ceres snorts, unbuckling her pants. It becomes a race to see who can get in first, and just as Raelle begins to sprint to the pond, Ceres is shoving her to the side to throw her off with gleeful laughter. “Hey!” 

“Loser!” Ceres calls over her shoulder before she dives in head first, disappearing under the water. Raelle follows, splashing into the refreshingly cool water. 

Raelle opens her eyes beneath the surface, and it’s clearer than looking through glass. Ceres is swimming about the water, twisting around with a happy and content look on her face. Raelle swims toward her, wondering how long she can hold her breath. 

Ceres looks at her through the water, and grins, little bubbles floating from her between her teeth to the surface. Raelle reaches her hand forward and Ceres takes it, pulling Raelle close until they’re chest to chest beneath the water. Oxygen becomes an irrelevant thought when Raelle feels Ceres’s hand on the small of her back, over the divit of her spine and holding her in such a way that reminds Raelle of their dance at the wedding. 

Eventually, they float to the surface, and there’s a smile on both of their faces. 

“C’mon,” Ceres says, turning to swim towards the waterfall. Raelle follows, whipping her hair out of her face as the water becomes shallow at the edge of the waterfall. They wade towards it, and Ceres leans over to grab Raelle’s hand, happiness and glee on her face. 

Raelle goes under the waterfall first, the water hitting her muscles and relieving an aching soreness she hadn’t even noticed until now. Raelle tugs Ceres in by their hands, and it’s then that Raelle sees no black marks on her skin. 

“No marks?” Raelle asks, spitting out some water to the side. 

“Only a manifestation in reality,” Ceres says, running her fingers through her hair and slicking it back. “Here, they don’t show up.” 

Ceres turns and tilts her head back, letting the water run through her hair. Raelle watches as the muscles in Ceres’s back flex as her arms raise, and in the daylight of Limbo, Raelle sees the splotches of hand marks all over her back and arms, even on her thighs and calves. Raelle averts her eyes away from Ceres’s ass in those dark green briefs, and traces her finger on Ceres’s spine. 

“Do these ever go away?” Raelle brushes her palm over them, and Ceres glances over. 

“Yes and no,” Ceres says. “They fade, but I always get new ones.” 

“I think… I think they’re beautiful,” Raelle says, pressing her hand against a print that nearly fits the shape of her own hand. “Reminders of all the people you helped find the afterlife, right?” 

“That’s a nice way to think about it,” Ceres says, turning around and taking Raelle’s hand in hers. “C’mon. I want to show you something.” 

Ceres gives Raelle a mischievous grin, before breaking through the wall of pouring water. Raelle, not one to be left behind, follows. 

The other side of the waterfall is a tunnel that Ceres ducks into, and the rocks beneath their feet feel mossy. Carefully, Raelle lowers her head while she follows Ceres through the tunnel until they breach through to the other side. 

And Raelle is left breathless. 

On the walls and ceiling of the cave are crystals, dazzling in the glowing light of bioluminescent mushrooms that illuminate the cave. Ceres lets out a laugh as she walks through the cave, wading into a small little pond in the middle of it. A pond within a cave within a waterfall within a larger pond. Say that ten times as fast. 

“This is fucking gorgeous,” Raelle says, awed as the lights dance off the crystals, the shades ranging from pink to purple to blue to red. Raelle doesn’t hesitate to wade in after Ceres, the water sloshing around as it settles around the middle of her thighs at the deepest portion. “You made all this.”

“I thought you might appreciate it,” Ceres says, pursing her lips before she smiles widely. “The light looks beautiful on your face, Raelle.” 

The way Raelle’s name rolls off Ceres’s tongue is addicting. 

“Say my name again,” Raelle whispers, stepping closer. The water stirs around them. 

“Raelle,” Ceres whispers back, her voice gravely and warm. 

It seems even the Reel is guiding them on the other side of the coin. 

“Fuck it,” Raelle murmurs, and Ceres feels it too. 

Raelle kisses Ceres, curling her fingers in the wet strands of Ceres’s hair. Ceres’s hands slide up Raelle’s back, pulling Raelle flush to her skin, and that ball in Raelle’s chest that's been there since the Reel  _ explodes _ . 

The dazzling crystals of the cave cause lights to dance across their skin as they kiss in the cave, eyes shut and only the sound of their shared breaths floating in the air. No disturbances touch them, like the cave has made a cocoon for them. 

Raelle has never felt such warmth in her chest, kissing someone like this. It’s paced, slow and languid, and Raelle’s insides feel like they’re lighting on fire. Ceres pulls away, only for her to dip lower and press a few scattered kisses to Raelle’s neck. Raelle clutches to the meat of Ceres’s shoulder, letting out a small gasp. 

“Is it bad that I feel like I’ve been waiting for this since the Reel?” Ceres whispers, before kissing the shell of Raelle’s ear. 

“I wanted to kiss you so bad,” Raelle admits quietly, and Ceres pulls her head back. A small smile drifts to Ceres’s face. 

“So did I. But I was scared to, because…” Ceres says, trailing off, but Raelle has already filled in the blanket. 

“We’re here now.” Raelle puts her hands on Ceres’s cheeks, bringing her in for another kiss. “I’m here with you.” 

“In Limbo, of all places,” Ceres says, and at that moment, a bell rings. Once, then twice, loud and resonating, like the bell of a church. Ceres smiles wider. “And that’s the bell of a new gate being opened.” 

“Let the souls of the dead find peace in the afterlife,” Raelle whispers, and Ceres laughs quietly. 

“I’ve been to Limbo hundreds and thousands of times, but this time… this is better than every other trip I’ve had,” Ceres says, eyes glittering. “Thank you, Raelle.” 

“For what?” 

“For not being afraid of the freakshow,” Ceres says, and Raelle laughs. 

“You could never be a freakshow to me, Ceres,” Raelle says, and Ceres just kisses her again, full-bodied and full of emotion. 

The bell rings again, four times in a row. Ceres sighs. 

“That would be the warning bell,” Ceres says. “Ten hours have passed.” 

“What? It’s only been an hour, or something like that,” Raelle says, shocked. 

“I know, but that’s how time works here. Sometimes it feels like days, sometimes it feels like minutes. But if we don’t leave soon, we’ll get stuck.” 

“I won’t hear your voice when I wake up, will I?” Raelle frowns, and Ceres nods. 

“It’ll be back to mute me. My voice can’t come back with me, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” Ceres says, looking away. 

“Doesn’t matter to me. You’re still Ceres, with or without your voice,” Raelle says. She looks to the crystals around them, and rests her head on Ceres’s chest. “I don’t want to leave this place.” 

“Neither do I.” 

A few seconds pass, with a few more kisses shared, before Ceres is pulling away. 

“Okay, it’s just like coming here. Close your eyes, and let me take care of it,” Ceres says, and Raelle nods. 

She shuts her eyes, and is pulled up and out. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

Ceres’s eyes snap open, and she exhales a long breath. The ceiling of her dorm comes into focus, and she looks down to Raelle snuggled to her chest, who is stirring with a small groan. Ceres links their pinkies together. 

_ Take it slow. Coming out of Limbo can be disorienting,  _ Ceres says, as she undoes the cuff above her. Morning has settled over the dorm, and Ceres uncuffs the one on their wrists before tossing the cuffs aside. Ceres brushes some of Raelle’s hair out of her face as Raelle slowly blinks.  _ Are you okay? _

“I didn’t just dream all of that, right?” Raelle whispers, and Ceres grins, leaning down to kiss Raelle sweetly. A content sigh slips out of Raelle’s mouth when Ceres pulls Raelle gently on top of her, hands skating over the fabric of Raelle’s shirt. 

Raelle pulls away, her face scrunched up slightly. Ceres’s brows knit together as she watches Raelle lean back, pulling up the side of her shirt. 

Large and bold on the side of Raelle’s abdomen is a black mark, swirling fingerprints gracing the side of Raelle’s ribs all the way down to her hip bone. 

Ceres’s hand slides on top of the mark, and not even her broad palm and long fingers are big enough to match the size of the mark. There’s a small huff from Ceres. 

_ Looks like you didn’t get away unscathed, _ Ceres comments, thumb stroking the cold surface of the black mark.  _ Does it hurt? _

“No, it tingles,” Raelle responds, briefly touching it. “It won’t be there forever, right?” 

_ I don’t know, _ Ceres says, sitting up as well, Raelle still resting in her lap.  _ Does it bother you? _

Raelle shakes her head, a faint smile coming onto her face. “Not at all.” 

_ C’mere, _ Ceres whispers down that link between them, running her hands up until they come to rest on Raelle’s face, and the blonde kisses her, clutching Ceres’s shirt tightly.  _ How did this take so long to happen? _

“I didn’t see you,” Raelle says between kisses, their foreheads connected. “Like you saw me.” 

_ But now you do? _

“I do,” Raelle whispers into the morning air, Ceres pressing kiss after kiss down the column of her neck, her hands leaving black marks everywhere they touch. Raelle knots her hands in Ceres’s hair, and the slight pull makes Ceres’s feel warm deep down. 

In the background, the first bell for wakeup call rings loudly, and Raelle groans, pressing herself closer to Ceres. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Raelle mumbles, and Ceres presses a kiss to Raelle’s cheek, over the faint scar. “But I have to go before Abigail blows up the room.” 

_ Looks like I can’t make you stay, hm? _

“You easily could if you just—” Raelle gasps when Ceres bites down on the base of Raelle’s neck, hands pressing insistently on her hips. “Asshole.” 

_ Fix it, then, _ Ceres teases, and Raelle laughs, simply pressing one last lingering kiss before pulling away. 

Raelle tugs on her boots and her jacket, and when she spares a glance in the mirror, Ceres watches the girl’s face morph into one of shock. There’s black marks lingering on her neck and her hands, shimmering like iridescent opal in the morning light. 

_ Thank god it’s only my hands that leave marks,  _ Ceres thinks to herself, watching with interest as Raelle faintly touches those marks. 

“You better make these go away,” Raelle says, and Ceres rolls her eyes. Ceres gets up from the bed, going behind Raelle and putting her hands on Raelle’s hips. 

_ But do you really want them to go away? _

Raelle sighs, tilting her head to the side and giving Ceres more room to kiss her neck. “Mhm, not really.” 

_ Then they stay.  _

“See you at breakfast, yeah?” Raelle asks. 

_ See you at breakfast.  _

Raelle leaves with one last kiss, and the smile on her face is brighter than Ceres has ever seen it. It makes Ceres feel gooey inside, and she mentally curses Berryessa for being right. The Reel is unavoidable— no matter how hard Ceres tried, it always led her back to Raelle. 

Ceres grins, mindlessly touching her lips before turning to get dressed in fresh clothes for the day. As she pulls on clean pants and a black tank top, Ceres thinks about Raelle. 

The truth had been hard for Raelle and Scylla. Their relationship, or what was left of it, had been severed because Scylla dodged personal questions, too focused on her goal of getting close to Raelle, for some unknown reason. 

Ceres buckles her belt, looking at herself in the mirror. Her hands drift to the medallion around her neck, given to her during conscription day. 

She knows she has to tell Raelle the truth. And soon. 

She grabs her jacket, and leaves her dorm with purpose in her step. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

The moment Raelle steps into the mess hall, filled with cadets from her squadron, eyes fall to her. 

“No way,” Abigail says as Raelle sits down with her bowl of cereal and milk. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

Raelle shifts in her chair, and glares at Abigail. 

The door to the mess hall opens again, and Raelle glances over. It’s Ceres, wearing her fatigues and her hair braided back, showing off the sharpness of her jawline as she gets her food. As she dispenses the cereal from the canister, she looks at Raelle. They both smile secretively before looking away. 

Tally is squealing, and Abigail’s jaw drops. 

“Oh my god, did you and Ceres—” 

“Shut up, Tal,” Raelle snaps, looking at the redhead, who seems none too bothered by Raelle’s harsh tone. 

“Clearly, Raelle’s milkshake brings all the freakshows to the yard,” Abigail muses, taking a long sip of her drink. Raelle nearly chokes on her cereal, and she’s half tempted to dump the bowl at the youngest Bellweather’s head. No matter— Raelle will just throw Abigail onto her ass during combat training today. 

“So the marks are from her?” Tally whispers conspiratorially, and Raelle nods. 

“Hot,” Abigail comments. Tally and Raelle look at her with matching looks of surprise, and Abigail shrugs. “Just saying.” 

“How does it work?” asks Tally, still ever so curious.

“A lot of mambo-jumbo I can barely explain,” Raelle responds, just as a cold hand touches her shoulder. Raelle doesn’t even have to turn to know who it is. 

_ Meet me in the museum, in front of the flag after mess hall. I need to talk to you and the others, privately.  _

Raelle looks up at Ceres, and simply nods. Ceres squeezes her shoulder, and Raelle just knows that a black mark will linger there for the whole day. 

When she looks back at Abigail and Tally, they both have wide-eyed expressions. 

“Telepathy,” Raelle just replies, watching Ceres go and sit by herself in the corner and eat her cereal. They meet eyes again, and Raelle can’t help the goofy grin that comes to her face. Ceres shakes her head, mouthing  _ focus _ to Raelle. Raelle looks back at her teammates. “Ceres wants us to meet her at the flag after breakfast, so hurry up.” 

“Freakshow wants to talk to us?” 

“Use her name, shitbird,” Raelle bites, and Abigail rolls her eyes. 

After hurrying through breakfast, they head towards the built-in museum on Fort Salem, open every hour of the day. It serves as one of the quietest places on the grounds, but Raelle has only ever gone there once or twice. 

The flag is hung in a more private sector of the museum, closed off and away from prying eyes. Ceres is already there when the three of them arrive, and she’s leaned against the wall, arms crossed resolutely over her chest. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Raelle asks, immediately walking over to Ceres. They touch hands, fingers entwining. 

_ Need to tell you guys something about me. No secrets,  _ Ceres says, gesturing to the flag. She lets go of Raelle’s hand and holds both of her hands out to Tally and Abigail. Tally latches on right away, but Abigail is more hesitant, but she does it anyway. Raelle can see the moment Ceres talks to them, as their eyes get wide and Tally even gasps. 

Now they know. Raelle feels a little bit proud, watching Ceres open up to them, despite not being able to hear what’s being said. 

Ceres lets go, prompting Tally and Abigail to look at their hands and marvel at the black marks that soon fade. The ones on Raelle are still prominent as ever and quite frankly, Raelle thinks that Ceres being possessive has something to do with that. 

Raelle isn’t saying she hates it. She quite likes it, if she’s being honest. Something about being visibly marked as someone else's makes her feel… protected. 

Ceres turns around, pulling her medallion off her head and walking towards the circular pedestal in front of the stitched flag. The medallion hovers, and Raelle sees Ceres’s hand  _ shaking _ , causing the medallion to swing left and right ever so slightly. 

She’s nervous. Raelle doesn’t think she’s ever seen Ceres nervous before. 

Raelle puts her hand on Ceres’s shoulder, and Tally and Abigail shift to see the flag. Ceres inhales, before letting the medallion rest on the pedestal. 

The medallion vibrates, the flag shifting as Ceres’s name appears on it. 

But the Rosethorn name isn’t on there. 

_ Ceres Alder.  _

Raelle feels shock seep into her spine, as the family tree grows. The thread grows from Ceres until a new name is stitched that leaves Raelle frozen. 

_ Sarah Alder _ . 

The thread grows and grows, until the Alder matriline has been completed, and the flag shivers. Everyone is on there, from Alder’s sister to the mothers before Alder. 

“No,” Raelle exhales, and Ceres looks down, hands clenched by her side. 

“You’re Alder’s kid?” Abigail hisses, and Tally is simply frozen, looking between the flag and Ceres. “Who’s your dad?” 

Ceres places her hand on Raelle’s arm, and the link between them feels stronger, more potent. There’s the flash of a memory from Ceres’s mind, and Raelle remembers the conversation she overheard in the forest during Beltane. Raelle blurts, “Witchfather.” 

Abigail begins pacing, her hands over her mouth. Raelle grabs the medallion off the podium in case someone comes in and sees, and drapes it around Ceres’s neck again, before cupping her face 

“You’re an Alder by blood, but you’re a Rosethorn by heart, Ceres. What she did to you doesn’t make you like her,” Raelle says, and the longer she stares at Ceres, the more she sees it. The sharpness of the jawline is all Alder, while the brown hair and eyes are so distinctly the Witchfather. The perfect combination of two of the most powerful witches in history. 

Abigail connects the dots. “And Alder hates you because you escaped from Project Charon?” 

Ceres nods, eyebrows furrowed together. 

Tally breaks forward, wrapping Ceres in a hug that leaves even Raelle shocked. 

“You’re still a good person,” Tally says, genuine love in her eyes. Tally lets go to repeat, “You’re still good.” 

Ceres’s face tightens, before a tear slips out, and she wipes it away hastily.

Even Abigail smiles. “You’ve still got the fierceness of the Rosethorns, shitbird.” 

Raelle puts her hand on Ceres’s chin, pulling her down for a quick kiss. “And you’re still mine.” 

Ceres grins, though she’s got tears on her cheeks. Tally pulls everyone in for a hug, and Raelle feels the link form between all of them. 

_ Thank you,  _ Ceres says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited by Jess once again. thank you for reading!


	9. eye for an eye makes the world blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> city drop comes at them faster and harder than they ever imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! I've been busy moving, so I haven't had the time to properly sit down and work on this.

_ Citydrop isn’t what it’s made out to be,  _ Raelle thinks, still itching the plague sores from the ‘Spree bomb’ that had unfortunately detonated on her and Tal. 

And when Raelle sees Helen Graves in passing, she says hello. Only, Graves doesn’t recognize her. It leads to a conversation with Anacostia and the realization that it was Scylla marauding as Graves to plant information in Raelle’s head to push her closer to Scylla. 

The more days that pass, the more Raelle realizes that Scylla wasn’t worth the attention at all. She should've never gone beyond a hookup. Raelle shouldn’t have been so foolish and blind to let herself get attached to someone like Scylla. 

Not when Ceres was there all along.

“Cadets! Your second mission is to root out the spree operatives keeping hostages in the high school!” Anacostia shouts across the empty pool that they’re all standing in. Raelle catches Ceres’s eye, and she has to take a second to appreciate how  _ good _ Ceres looks in uniform. How has she never noticed until now?

“Rules are the same as before! Disarm the operatives, no lethal force, and use every tool you have to keep the hostages safe!” Anacostia commands. “Am I understood?!” 

The squadron begins stomping in unison, the floor shaking ever so slightly with the force of some two dozen cadets ready to get moving. 

“Then get moving! Work as a squad!” 

The cadets clamber out of the pool and begin jogging towards the high school where the ‘hostages’ are being held. 

And almost naturally, Ceres and Raelle find each other, much to the annoyance of Abigail. 

“Fine. Tally and I will pair up. Raelle, you go with Ceres,” Abigail states, doling out commands as if it’s second nature. A four star general in the making. “But no funny business. Focus. This is important.” 

“And this is the first time you haven’t called Ceres a freakshow,” Raelle bites back as they burst through the door. 

“Because she isn’t,” Abigail replies matter-of-factly. “She’s a force of nature.” 

The grin on Ceres’s face is wide with pride. 

Raelle and Ceres break off from Tally and Abigail at the junction of a hallway, sweeping the rooms in tandem. The squadron has spread out to search the entire high school, so if there’s trouble, they’ll know. 

“Ceres!” Raelle calls out as she kicks a door down. Ceres is there in an instant, attacking the Spree operative guarding a group of hostages with her scourge. Raelle waves around, unleashing a windstrike that sends the operative flying into the wall. The Spree gets up easily, moving towards Ceres with a high punch, but Ceres dodges it before ramming into the operative. 

They tussle on the ground, punches being traded and rolling around on the floor until Ceres manages to pin her down enough to get a pair of cuffs on her. 

“Nice job, babe,” Raelle comments, pressing a quick kiss to Ceres’s cheek before untying the hostages sitting in a small circle. 

_ Babe? _ Ceres mouths at Raelle with a crooked brow and a smirk. The hostages, once untied, head off to join Anacostia at the front of the school. 

“Let’s get moving,” Raelle says, but Ceres grabs Raelle by the wrist and pulls her back. Raelle barely registers being pressed to the wall of the room, her wrists pinned above her head and Ceres looming over her with a certain look in her eye that Raelle thinks is entirely inappropriate for their current setting. 

But she  _ likes _ it. Raelle tries to pull her wrists out of Ceres’s grip, but the taller woman’s grip is irontight. Raelle, in a moment of boldness, hooks her leg behind Ceres’s knee, pulling until Ceres buckles. Raelle flips them so that she’s pressing Ceres against the wall by her shoulders. 

“Don’t want to make dear Abigail angry by fooling around,” Raelle comments, looking up at an amused Ceres. 

Raelle nearly gets whiplash as Ceres easily breaks out of Raelle’s grip, and pins Raelle to the top of a nearby table. Raelle’s arms are above her head yet again, and honestly, this isn’t bad at all. Not too shabby, being pinned down by one of the hottest women in existence. 

_ Need help focusing? _ Ceres asks, and Raelle inhales, flexing her wrists against Ceres’s palms. 

“We’re literally in Citydrop, Ceres,” Raelle breathes, and Ceres leans closer. 

_ Your point? _

“Kiss me or I’ll do worse things when we get back,” Raelle promises, and Ceres raises her brow. 

So what if it’s only been a few days? This has been going on since the Reel. 

Ceres leans down, pressing a long, insistent kiss against Raelle’s lips, a hand resting on the side of Raelle’s stomach over the mark left from Limbo, and the skin there tingles pleasantly. 

“Check this roo— ugh! Gross!” 

Raelle’s face burns as she looks up from her unfortunate position to see Libba and Glory have entered the room. Libba’s face is scrunched up. 

“Wait till I tell Bellweather about this. She’ll shit her tight pants,” Libba cackles, rubbing her hands together. Ceres backs up, and pulls Raelle to her feet. Like Raelle, she’s got a blush on her face. 

Glory just looks mortified, and Raelle feels somewhat bad. But not really. She was busy kissing Ceres. 

Turns out, the high school is swept through, with all faux Spree operatives dispatched and the hostages rescued. Most, if not all, of the squad took a few hits, some bearing bleeding lips or bruised faces. Ceres is among the worst, if the black eye on her face and split lip has anything to say about it. 

And much as Raelle wants to take those wounds off, she can’t. Ceres explained it to her a day ago— Ceres has gone back and forth from reality so much, constantly switching between existing and being dead, that it’s entered a sort of purgatory state. It exists, but Limbo bleeds into it. Hence, if Raelle tried healing Ceres, it would be synonymous to letting Limbo into the real world, trying to take Ceres’s wounds onto her own skin.

So, Raelle has to deal with seeing Ceres bleed. To see Ceres bleed is… strange. After all, part of her is dead. Dead people don’t bleed, do they? It’s a magic more complicated than anything Raelle knows, and it’s a little awe inspiring, to know that Ceres is one of the most powerful witches out there, all without a voice. 

Anacostia turns away for a few moments, before turning back to the girls. “Cadets! I’ve just received orders from General Alder. There are two Spree trucks making a beeline towards Boston! Due to our proximity, we have been ordered to take down these trucks and prevent a catastrophe.” 

There’s a shift in the group, cadets glancing warily at each other. Another test? 

Anacostia eyes the squadron, and Raelle sees the truth in her sergeant's eyes. 

“This is very much real, cadets. Let’s get moving,” Anacostia says, before turning to walk down a dirt path. Raelle looks at Ceres, who looks at her, before they both start moving in formation. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

When they’re loaded into the helicopters, a part of Ceres thinks this might still be a part of Citydrop. A final test to make cadets into fully fledged soldiers of the United States Army. 

But when Ceres stares down the center of the long, winding road in front of them, seeing two black semis racing towards them, she knows it’s not a test. This is real, and goddess, it feels  _ terrifying _ . 

Her heart is beating in her chest like a war drum, and she can barely hear Anacostia’s words of “Hold!” and “Steady!” One girl turns and runs, and Ceres sees a few others consider. Meanwhile, Libba and Abigail, ever so bull-headed and proud, are standing near the front, identical looks of war on their faces. Tally is beside Anacostia, and Raelle is on the other side of the formation. 

Ceres wonders how she’s even helping. She can’t exactly execute a windstrike. No vocal cords, no seeds, no windstrike. Regardless, she’s here. 

The first truck accelerates, growing larger and larger. Anacostia shifts her stance, yelling “Hold!” one final time. She holds her arms out to the side. 

“Now!” Anacostia shouts, and Ceres feels her bones shake with the strength of the windstrike unleashed by the entire squadron. The truck doesn’t stand a chance— it’s thrown to the side and lands with a violent crash. “Collar! Go check for survivors! Use lethal force if necessary!”

Raelle nods, but she glances at Ceres from the corner of her eye before turning and running into the brush. Ceres swallows; she knows Raelle can handle herself as well as anyone here. She’s just scared for her. The Spree are nasty. 

Ahead, the second truck has rolled to a stop. Tally quickly grabs Anacostia’s shoulder, leaning in to say something that Ceres can’t hear, no matter how hard she strains her ears. Anacostia looks frozen, for a few seconds, as Tally steps back. 

Then, “No mercy! Just like the rough room ladies, grind it to  _ dust. _ ” 

Tally leans forward again, hurriedly whispering with panic on her face, but Anacostia shrugs her off easily. Ceres adjusts her stance when the second truck begins accelerating again. Anacostia gives the order for a windshear, and right before the truck slams into the squad, they vocalize. 

The windshear slices through the truck like butter, sending shrapnel flying. Ceres blinks and she moves before she has a chance to think about it.. 

Ceres leaps to the side, shoving Libba to the ground before metal slides through uniform and through her sternum in the blink of an eye. Ceres pauses, the world has gone quiet and her heartbeat hammers in her ears. 

Anacostia turns, and her eyes widen with panic. 

Ceres glances down, and sticking out from her chest is shrapnel, twisted and gnarled, and blood is slowly seeping through her uniform from the wound. From the ground, Libba looks terrified, and Ceres stumbles backward, shock settling into her bones as she realizes there’s a fucking piece of metal in her chest. 

Black splotches begin appearing in the corners of her vision as her body keeps moving, vertigo slamming into her as she falls onto her knees, then collapses onto her side. Her vision goes dark before coming to, a repeated cycle of dimming and brightening as the voices around her become muffled, like someone has shoved cotton into her ears. 

Ceres sees Anacostia, the blurry face of the sergeant hovering over her, and Ceres opens her mouth to say something, only for her to curse herself, because she can’t fucking talk. She can’t tell Anacostia to find Raelle. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

The scream that comes out of Raelle’s chest is guttural as the whip snaps against the face of the Spree that dared to take Scylla’s likeness. It’s heartbroken and shattered, because everything about Scylla was a god damn fucking lie. 

And for a few, brief moments, everything is quiet. The Spree lies dead at her feet still and unmoving, and the head of the scourge is red hot from the strength of the blow. Raelle’s lips quiver, before she chokes back a sob. 

_ No. Not the time, Collar. Get back to the others.  _

She reels her scourge in and hangs it on her hip, turning and jogging back to the road. A scream of panic rises up from the direction of the road, and it sends Raelle sprinting to see what’s going on. 

Tally and Abigail are circled around Anacostia, while Libba is being held by Glory a few feet away, frantically pressing bandages to Libba’s eye. 

But where is Ceres?

Panic surges in Raelle’s chest as she steps onto the road, and pushes her way through the cadets standing around. They all have that same look of grief and terror on their faces, and Raelle doesn’t know where the fuck Ceres is. 

That is, until she makes it to Anacostia, and she stops dead in her tracks. 

Lying on her back, arms splayed out to her sides is Ceres, eyes wide open with the shock of death written in them. Her fingers are twitching, and Raelle can hear the staccato breathing. 

“No!” Raelle screams, throat raw as she buckles to her knees. She all but crawls to Ceres, cradling her head in her hands. “Fuck, no!” 

If Ceres sees her, she barely acknowledges it with the tiniest twitch of her lips. Her lips have turned a faint blue, and her pupils are blown, her gaze is dazed and confused. Raelle presses her hand against Ceres’s palm, and when she looks down there’s no black mark. Her skin is clean, save for the dirt, and Raelle  _ breaks _ . 

“Please, goddess, please,” Raelle begs, tears streaming down her face as she presses her forehead to Ceres’s palm. The link isn’t forming. There’s no feeling of cold and relief that Raelle always feels when Ceres touches her. The bond is gone. 

Ceres exhales, before her hand goes limp and her head becomes heavy in Raelle’s palm. 

“No, no, no!” Raelle screams, as if that’ll do anything to make Ceres’s eyes blink again, or her heart start beating. Tally and Abigail are pulling her off gently, and Anacostia is crying too, silent tears and a stone cold face that screams anguish and pain. 

And as if the world is playing some sort of sick joke on Raelle, Ceres’s head droops to the side, staring at Raelle with dead eyes. 

~~~~~

Raelle would consider the helicopter quiet, if it weren’t for Abigail and Libba absolutely screaming at each other. 

“It’s your fucking fault, Swythe!” 

“You think I wanted somebody to  _ die _ for me, Bellweather?!” Libba shouts back, her face red. Glory tries to hush her, muttering something about not making the eye wound worse, but Libba isn’t having any of it, not when Abigail is snot-faced and crying because of Ceres, laying just a few feet away. 

They put a white tarp over her. 

As if that would make it any better.

Raelle’s shaking, her mind steamrolling through denial. That’s not Ceres. It’s somebody else. Ceres is on another chopper, alive and healthy. 

But as much as Raelle tries to convince herself, she knows. She knows it’s Ceres under that white sheet, dead as can be. 

Tally is holding Raelle, and she’s crying too, silent and full of sorrow. She’s rubbing circles onto Raelle’s back. It helps Tally to do something, but to Raelle it’s so infinitesimally small that it’s next to worthless. 

Anacostia is next to Ceres, her head downcast. Her face is blank, but there’s grief in her eyes, mixed with what looks like disappointment. Not disappointment in Ceres, though. Disappointment in herself. 

Nobody here can be disappointed in what Ceres did. Least of all Raelle. 

“She’s my fucking  _ friend! _ ” Abigail shouts, banging her hand against the side of the chopper, metal clanging. “And now she’s fucking gone, Swythe.”

Libba’s lip quivers, and then she’s surging forward out of her seat at Abigail. Raelle is barely paying attention, her mind stuck in a trance, but she does see how Abigail and Libba are clutching at each other, crying and hugging. 

Misery makes strange bedfellows, as William Shakespeare once said. 

Anacostia exhales shakily as the atmosphere of the chopper turns quiet. The pilot in the front announces their descent, and Raelle leans into Tally. Her eyes are glued to the tarp, and she can only think of Alder and her reaction. 

Ceres Rosethorn. 

Dead. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jess for editing, again. Hope you enjoyed it!


	10. mors vincit omnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "death always wins"

Alder watches with a smile on her face as Izadora pulls back the tarp. It’s a sharp, feral grin, one that leaves her feeling successful as she glances down to the body of her daughter. A weakling. 

A weakling that died saving someone else, perhaps, but a weakling nonetheless. Alder looks down at Ceres. The piece of shrapnel has been removed from her chest and stitches keep the wound closed, as though it will simply scar over and heal. 

_ Dead people don’t heal, _ Alder thinks to herself. 

“General, this is an  _ amazing _ opportunity,” Izadora says, nearly drooling. “We can finally figure out what makes this weakling tick and—” 

“No,” Alder commands, folding her arms behind her back. She leans over Ceres, tilting her head to the side. She does look like the Witchfather, doesn’t she? 

Izadora is flabbergasted. “But, General, this could give you more pow—” 

“You failed to dispose of her properly ten years ago, Izadora. I won’t be having the same mistake made  _ twice, _ ” Alder emphasizes with a harsh glare towards the Necro specialist. She glances down to Ceres once more, before backing away. “I have a press conference to make.” 

“Wh— what do we do with her, General?” Izadora asks, pressing her hands together nervously. 

Alder sighs, then straightens her shoulders. “We will have to give her a funeral. Lady Rosethorn will have the rest of the High Atlantics breathing down my neck if we don’t.” 

“And after, General?” Izadora looks down at Ceres, and she seems disappointed. 

Alder clicks her tongue. “We burn her at the stake.” 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

If it weren’t required for Raelle to be here, she’d be locked away in her room, under the covers of her bed. 

But, of-fucking-course Alder makes it a requirement to watch the press conference. The pencil Raelle has been fiddling with for the past hour snaps in her hand. Tally is quick to take the pieces of the old and give her a new one. Raelle starts spinning the pencil in her hand again. 

So much has gone on within the span of a few hours. Ceres died. Tally saw civilians in the truck, and Alder gave the order to kill anyway. Libba lost an eye, despite the best attempts of Colonel Wick and her fixers. 

The room quietens once the TV screen flicks to life, General Alder appearing. Microphones surround her, as well as the flashes of cameras taking photos to mark this momentous moment in history. 

_ What a shitty moment in history, _ Raelle thinks bitterly. 

Alder begins, “A moment for the fallen.” 

Raelle scoffs, shaking her head and looking down at her lap. The fucking audacity of this woman, to say that when it was her  _ daughter _ who died. And not only did Ceres die, she sacrificed herself so another witch could live. 

“At least say her fucking name, asshole,” Raelle whispers under her breath to the screen. Tally nudges her, but Raelle doesn’t look up. Abigail’s hand comes to rest on Raelle’s shoulder, and Raelle has to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from crying. 

“Earlier this morning, our forces intercepted two vehicles on Highway 93, having tracked them from a Spree armory in Vermont. That armory was subsequently destroyed by the Spree in a massive explosion, resulting in the loss of over a hundred military and civilian lives,” Alder says, and she looks sorrowful. Raelle has the distinct feeling that Alder couldn’t give less of a damn. 

As long as it was a success, Alder doesn’t care about the lives that were given. It’s just another shiny badge for her bandolier. 

“The vehicles themselves were loaded with munitions, and, tragically, civilian hostages. We believe that they were hell‐bent on committing a massive coordinated attack, starting in Boston and spreading to nations around the globe,” Alder continues, shifting around on the podium to look at all the cameras. “After our forces intercepted them, the Spree reacted as they always do. With shocking violence and destruction. They chose to execute the hostages, and our troops suffered a further loss in the ensuing battle.” 

There’s a small gasp from the TV, as reporters and camera operators begin whispering in a frenzy. Alder holds up her hand, and the wordless command causes everything to go silent again. 

What is it about Alder that makes her so threatening? Raelle, quite frankly,  _ really _ just wants to punch the untouchable General in the face. 

“We must take solace in the fact that several agents from the Spree were neutralized, including members of their leadership, along with their entire munitions stockpile. A disaster of worldwide proportions was prevented. So now we must rebuild, and continue our fight to end the Spree once and for all,” Alder says, her chin coming up proudly, haughtily. She then swallows, pursing her lips lightly. “A blessing on the families of those who lost loved ones to this tragedy. A blessing on this great nation. I will take questions now.” 

As soon as the TV is turned off, Abigail is on her feet, all but stomping to the front of the room and standing on the coffee table. 

“Listen up, shitbirds! Her name was Ceres Rosethorn, and she deserves to be remembered!” Abigail says, her voice easily commanding the attention of the room, including Anacostia. “Now I know all of you saw her as a freakshow! The witch who couldn’t talk, but could certainly put you on your ass in combat training!”

Abigail goes silent for a beat. “I saw her like that too. But she’s not that. She was one of the greatest privates this army has ever seen, and she died a hero, not a freak.” 

Stomping goes around the room in unanimous agreement, and Libba (with an assist from Glory) climbs on top of the coffee table, joining Abigail. 

“She saved my life. If Ceres hadn’t jumped in front of me, I would probably be dead. It’s thanks to her that I only lost one eye, and not my life,” Libba says, and there’s tears in the corner of her eye. “So if any of you talk shit about Ceres, you’re going to deal with the full force of the Swythes.” 

“And the Bellweathers,” Abigail adds, glancing down to Libba, with the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. The stomping in the room gets louder, and Raelle inhales. 

The pencil in her hand breaks. 

With a haste that could be considered violent, Raelle stands and throws the broken pieces of the pencil onto the ground. 

_ They didn’t even bother to say her fucking name _ , Raelle thinks as she walks out of the room. 

~~~~~

Raelle has to admit that the swiftness with which the funeral for Ceres was organized is astounding. It’s only the next day, and the front lawn of Fort Salem is bedecked with chairs. Raelle stands off in the distance, watching as officers and cadets all sit down. 

At least ninety percent of these people didn’t know Ceres. They’re here to make it  _ look _ good, instead of empty. 

Because if Alder had her way, Ceres Rosethorn would be erased from existence. Ceres’s name would disappear from the archives, and she would cease to exist in the mouths of the people and the eyes of history. 

But history is always watching. 

In the distance, Raelle recognizes the elegance of Lady Rosethorn. She is escorted by various officers and a fixer follows in her wake. 

As broken as Raelle feels inside, she can’t even begin to imagine how Lady Rosethorn feels about losing the woman who she saw as her daughter. Raelle shifts, tugging the front of her uniform in an effort to ignore the clamminess of her gloved hands and the dryness of her throat. 

Raelle doesn’t want to be here, because it makes it too real. Ceres is inside the coffin, likely dressed in the very same uniform that Raelle is wearing. 

Ceres didn’t deserve to die. She doesn’t deserve to be put to rest in a uniform that her mother made. The same mother that abused her for eight straight years. 

“And you must be Raelle, hm?” 

Raelle blinks, zoning back to reality. Lady Rosethorn is standing in front of her, dressed in an elegant uniform and a sash bedecked with medals, walking with a cane. Two officers stand behind her, and Lady Rosethorn easily waves them away. As Raelle watches them go, she wonders how many years of respect it takes to be able to do that. 

“Yes, ma’am, I am,” Raelle replies to the smaller woman, who rests her folded hands on the hilt of her cane. Her eyes are on Raelle, and it’s like she can see straight through her. Then, she moves to stand next to Raelle, and surveys the people gathering at the funeral procession. 

“Oh, look at everyone, strutting around like peacocks in their uniforms, as if stars and badges and ranks are the only things that matter in the end,” Lady Rosethorn says, a hint of scorn in her tone.  _ Rightfully so, _ Raelle thinks. She’s older than mostly everyone here. “Thankfully, there have been quite a few updates to the uniform since my cadet days. The trousers were much more voluminous in my day, and the extra fabric bunched so unflatteringly.” 

Raelle lets out a half-hearted hum of agreement, arms folded in front of her as she stares balefully at the ground. Lady Rosethorn stares in the distance for some time, before looking back at Raelle. Raelle feels her chin pushed up by the hilt of Lady Rosethorn’s cane. 

The wise woman gives her a look, and a small smile. “Keep looking down at the ground and you’ll get neck wrinkles. No Work can correct neck wrinkles, girl.” 

Raelle lets out a small huff with the tiniest smile coming onto her cheeks, the first since Ceres’s death, and Lady Rosethorn hooks her arm into Raelle’s elbow. 

“Walk me to my seat, private,” Lady Rosethorn says, but it’s a demand that Raelle can’t refuse. So, she folds her arm more comfortably, and begins walking at the pace Lady Rosethorn sets. Raelle can’t help but think that Lady Rosethorn’s irreverence is entirely charming. She knows where Ceres gets it from, now. 

“You were her girl,” Lady Rosethorn states as they walk to the seats. Raelle’s eyes widen, and Lady Rosethorn chuckles. “Darling, Ceres has never been able to hide anything from me. She may not have been born with a voice, but her face has always said everything I needed to know.” 

Raelle inhales shakily, and Lady Rosethorn squeezes her arm. 

“You’re tethered to her in a way that’s simply unexplainable,” Lady Rosethorn muses. They’ve arrived at her seat in the front row, and she turns to face Raelle. “Now, girl, you’d do best to listen closely.” 

Raelle’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead as Lady Rosethorn raises the hilt of her cane and presses it against the medallion around Raelle’s neck, sitting over her heart. 

“You hold onto that bond, girl, and whatever you do, never,  _ ever _ let go,” Lady Rosethorn warns, a seriousness in her eyes that makes Raelle feel dizzy with confusion. Or that might just be because she hasn’t felt like eating anything lately. Lady Rosethorn sits down, and Raelle takes her opportunity to leave and go sit down as well. 

She’s seated between Tally and Abigail, and if it weren’t for them, Raelle doubts she would’ve shown up at all.  _ Who wants to go to their dead girlfriend’s funeral?  _ Raelle thinks, her leg bouncing in place as she watches the casket be brought out by pallbearers. 

It’s standard military procedure, with some witches singing a song as the casket is lifted onto a bier to rest, the red and white stripes of the flag resting over it shine in the noonday sun. Raelle glances a few rows over in the other section, recognizing the beige jacket of the Witchfather. 

That conversation in the woods that Raelle overhead months ago feels heartbreaking all over again. The Witchfather was  _ trying _ , but Alder wasn’t having it. Raelle can see the grief in the line of his shoulders, and his head is hung low. Raelle wonders if Ceres ever forgave him. He never did play a part in Project Charon, after all; he only learned of its existence after Ceres had escaped. 

Some officers fold the flag crisply before presenting it to Lady Rosethorn. Raelle wonders why out of everyone here, Lady Rosethorn looks the most unbothered by everything going on. There are no tears on her face as far as Raelle can tell, and she looks  _ bored _ being here. 

So, clearly,  _ what in the god damn fuck? _

It’s Abigail’s turn for the eulogy, with Libba. The feud that had raged on between their families for generations seems to have been quelled with the death of Ceres. And if there’s anything good that’s come out of this… at least Abigail and Libba have set aside their differences. Raelle can be glad about that at least. 

Libba begins. “Yesterday morning, I was ready to give my life to stop the Spree inside those trucks. I was ready and willing to do whatever it took. But, in those moments after, I realized that, as ready as I was, I wasn’t ready to die. And Ceres kept me here. She put herself before me, and I will never forget the look on her face when she realized that she was about to die.” 

There’s a pause as Libba looks at the ground, Abigail putting her hand on Libba’s shoulder to soothe the smaller private. Libba inhales, then turns her head up proudly. “Ceres never talked. She wasn’t able to. But she didn’t need to. She didn’t look mad, she looked at peace, like she knew she had made the right decision. If it weren’t for Ceres, I’d…” 

Libba trails off, her throat bobbing visibly. Abigail whispers something softly to Libba, before speaking into the microphone. 

“Ceres Rosethorn is a private deserving of the medal of honor. She has made her family proud and has brought honor to her name,” Abigail says, and Raelle wonders if Abigail tastes that same bitterness sitting heavily on her tongue. Alder, sitting at the front row, probably doesn’t even care. Hell, she’s probably fucking  _ celebrating _ this funeral instead of mourning. “Despite not having a voice, she was the loudest of all of us. Her words were unnecessary because she spoke through her actions. Now when I think of her, I see the shining example of what a soldier should be. Strong, dedicated, and…” 

Abigail’s eyes lock on Raelle’s. 

“Loving,” Abigail finishes. Raelle’s heart clenches inside of her chest, and she chokes back a sob. “Ceres Rosethorn. That’s her name, so you had better remember it.” 

There’s a loud stomping from all present that accompanies Libba and Abigail on their walk back to their seats; holding hands without a care in the world. 

The funeral comes to a close with officers firing three volleys from rifles. 

The first one is loud, and there’s a faint ringing in Raelle’s ears. It brings her back to a time before all this, where there were moments of pure bliss with Ceres. 

The soldiers reload, and fire once more. 

The second shot pulls Raelle back to every event that led her into the arms of Ceres. The Reel that guided them together, but even back then, they had pulled apart. Then the events that transpired with Scylla, who (as far Raelle knows or cares) is still rotting away in the Necropolis dungeons. Events which pushed her closer to Ceres. If you had told Raelle that months ago, when all she wanted to do was  _ die _ , that she would come to love a person who personified the balance between life and death? She wouldn’t have believed you. 

Love. 

The third shot rings out into the sky, and Raelle starts crying. She’s crying because she never got to tell Ceres that she loves her, and that she no longer wants to die on the frontlines. Raelle will never be able to hold Ceres’s face and kiss her again. Raelle will never be able to feel the black marks on her skin. 

The only black mark left on her is the one from when they went to Limbo. It has yet to fade, and Raelle doesn’t want it to ever go away. She doesn’t want her only physical reminder of Ceres to dissolve. 

The stomping from the assembled witches shakes the ground, and Raelle is the only one not stomping, because it’s not worth it. It’s not worth it, when Ceres is locked away in the casket. 

Raelle stands when everyone else stands, and is the first to leave. 

And she walks. 

She walks deep into the forest surrounding Fort Salem. The trees stand tall, but nowhere near as tall as the trees in Limbo. 

Raelle wonders if Ceres has found her way to the afterlife yet. She wonders if Ceres has found happiness in the afterlife. She wonders if Ceres got her voice back. 

The ache in her chest grows the longer she walks aimlessly through the woods. Raelle feels like she could walk for hours on end and never quite reach the end of the forest. 

But if Ceres were at the end of the woods, in a clearing with a field full of flowers behind her… Raelle would run and never stop running until she made it. 

Ceres had this ability about her to see the line between life and death. An innate ability that stemmed from her being half dead, but it made her see things in a way that Raelle couldn’t even begin to imagine. She saw things as what they would be in Limbo. 

And in Limbo, everything wanders. In Limbo, everything is limitless to Ceres. 

_ Was limitless, _ Raelle reminds herself. 

Raelle isn't sure how long she's walked when the burble of water over rocks breaks through her introspection. Through a screen of trees Raelle finds a small outcropping with a small stream flowing into a still pond. It’s nothing like the majestic waterfall that Ceres had built in Limbo, but it's also too much like it for Raelle not to stop and stare. 

It’s so familiar that Raelle freezes, and it all comes crumbling down. The tenuous hold Raelle had on stability unravels in that moment, and tears spill from her eyes so quickly that it’s a river of emotions. 

This…

The thought of Ceres having been here before sends Raelle scrambling forward to the edge of the pond. This could’ve been where Ceres drew her inspiration in to make the pond that she and Raelle had swum in during their visit to Limbo. The water isn’t as clear, nor is there a waterfall to stand under, but it’s still beautiful. 

Raelle unthinkingly tugs off her uniform jacket, the buttons unclasping as fast as her fingers can before she tosses it to the side. She doesn’t bother with her boots before wading into the waters of the pond. The cold is a shock to her skin, but all it does is remind her of Ceres’s cool touch, and how her skin was always chilly, a relief during the hotter days in Fort Salem. 

She goes under, because if she can’t go under to Limbo, then she can at least go under the water. 

Raelle swims, the water getting colder the lower she goes, and at the bottom of the pond, she swears she sees a reflection of Ceres reaching out to her.

So Raelle stretches her arm out too, desperate to touch Ceres again. Her mind dredges up flashes of Limbo, when they swam underneath the water together, and Raelle can’t begin to tell truth from memory as they blur together in a torrent of emotions. Raelle’s fingers almost touch Ceres, almost reaching the woman she loves so wholly—

Something grabs her by the ankle and pulls her back. If Raelle could scream underwater, she certainly would, because she’s being pulled away from Ceres. 

She’s pulled from the depths of the pond into the air, and she  _ screams.  _

“No!” Raelle’s voice shatters through the quiet of the forest, leaves rustling at the strength of the power laced in her words. Raelle grasps for the pond again, but people are holding her back. 

Abigail and Tally are restraining her arms, but it doesn’t stop Raelle from kicking with all the power left in her, but a part of her, in the back of her mind, whispers to  _ give up.  _

_ She’s gone.  _

“Rae, Rae, we’re here,” Tally says, as they come to the edge of the pond. Raelle goes slack for a few seconds, before a surge of power comes through her. Raelle wrenches from their grip and collapses in the shallows of the pond, her voice giving out as her cries become quieter and quieter. 

“She’s not gone!” Raelle screams, her voice raw. “She’s not dead!” 

“Raelle,” Abigail is speaking softly, leaning down to her in the water and wrapping her arm around Raelle’s soaked shoulders. “C’mere.” 

Abigail guides Raelle to lean into her, and Raelle’s run out of tears to cry, leaving her dry-heaving in the place where she should be with Ceres, where she should be kissing Ceres—

“She’s gone, Raelle,” Tally says, coming to Raelle’s other side. “It’s okay, we’re here for you.” 

Raelle reaches out to the water one last time, searching for the reflection of Ceres, before she collapses into the hold of her found family. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

_ Goddess, why does my chest hurt so much? _

Ceres blinks slowly, her vision coming to focus as she sees the gray sky above her. She moves her hand to her face, rubbing her palm over her face. She sits up slowly, pain blossoming in her chest as she does so. Ceres grumbles, looking down at her rib cage and looks down the fabric of her shirt. 

On her chest, between her breasts, is a curving, gnarled scar. 

_ Talk about heartburn, _ Ceres thinks. She sighs, pushing herself onto her feet. It takes a few seconds for her to catch her breath before she can stand upright, and as she begins walking, she presses a hand to her chest to soothe the ache in her bones. 

Things don’t normally hurt in Limbo. 

Things don’t—

_ Oh, fuck.  _

Ceres opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

_ Fuck, fuck, not again.  _

Ceres looks around her, eyes widening as she realizes that she’s died again.  _ Again.  _

Once was bad enough, but  _ twice? _

She begins running. She doesn’t know where she’s going, because now that she’s dead, she has none of her power at her disposal. 

A side effect of dying, obviously. 

In the breeze of Limbo, the sound of a bell rings. Once, twice, then a final time. 

_ Are you kidding me? _

A faint howl in the distance settles into Ceres’s bones, and the panic begins to well in her chest. The Guardian is coming. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and don't forget to leave kudos and comment!


	11. echoes of the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the full truth of project charon is exposed, and a shard of hope revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, everyone! I hope everyone is still enjoying this series as much as I am.

Raelle could not care less about how soggy her bowl of cereal is getting. She eats as much as she’s able to stomach, because Abigail and Tally keep shooting her concerned looks. 

If she ends up throwing up during training today, well… that’s a problem for future Raelle, not present Raelle. 

Libba and her unit have relocated to the Bellweather unit’s usual table, and while Raelle doesn’t generally care, she  _ does  _ care about how Abigail and Libba keep looking at each other like the way Ceres looked at Raelle. It makes Raelle feel sick and lovelorn all over again. 

“How’s your eye, Libba?” Tally asks, and Libba makes a move to scratch it before Abigail slaps her hand away.

“Itchy. The fixers say it won’t grow back, but I’m okay with that. I’ll just learn and get stronger again,” Libba says, and she dips her spoon to get another helping of cereal, but completely misses the bowl by a few inches. “Fucking eyesight is annoying the shit out of me.” 

“Just a few more adjustments, and you’ll be better than ever, Libba,” Abigail reassures the curly haired woman, and they look at each other so adoringly that Raelle has to look away. 

Tally raps her knuckles on the table. “We should head to training.” 

“Fine by me,” Raelle mutters, standing up with so much force her chair skids. She says nothing about it, and dumps her relatively untouched food into the trash. 

Nobody’s talked about it. Nobody  _ wants _ to talk to Raelle about it. 

“Ladies.” The voice of Anacostia floods into the room. All of the girls milling about turn and pay close attention to their sergeant, who has a slight look of pride from the immediate reaction. “You’re dismissed to the gym. Go.” 

Nobody says a thing, and Raelle feels grateful for the early dismissal from breakfast. 

“Bellweather unit, stay,” Anacostia says. 

Nevermind. Raelle slumps back into the chair across from Abigail and Tally, and Anacostia takes the seat next to Raelle. Libba and Glory linger, but one look from Anacostia sends them running to the gym. 

“I need to talk to you three about something important,” Anacostia says, keeping her voice low. “It’s about Ceres.” 

Raelle’s nails dig into the wood of the table. 

“It’s about time I told you the truth of what happened, and the truth of Project Charon,” Anacostia adds, and Tally’s eyes widen. 

“The rumors…?” 

“True. And much worse than anything you’ve heard. It would be best if I showed you,” Anacostia replies, before laying her hands onto the table. Tally is quick to rest her hand on Anacostia’s palm, and Abigail does the same. Anacostia looks at Raelle, who has her jaw set harshly. 

Anacostia nudges Raelle with her boot. 

“I know you’re still hurting, but you need to know, Collar,” Anacostia says quietly, and Raelle grunts, putting her hand in Anacostia’s palm. Anacostia squeezes reassuringly, before instructing, “Close your eyes and let your mental barriers down, and watch.” 

~~~~~

_ Anacostia _

_ Fourteen Years Ago _

“Quartermaine!” Alder’s voice is strong and unflinching, but Anacostia doesn’t let her gaze fall as she steps out of line. “With me. The rest of you! Dismissed!” 

Stares of jealousy come from the other cadets in the line-up, and Anacostia feels herself filling with pride, though she doesn’t let herself forget her manners. She’s still a simple cadet in the eyes of the notorious General Alder. Alder begins walking, and Anacostia stays a few paces behind. 

The biddies follow behind in formation, falling into step a few feet behind Alder and Anacostia. 

“Do you know why I singled you out, Private?” Alder asks, glancing over her shoulder for the briefest moment. 

“No, ma’am,” Anacostia replies quickly. 

“Then allow me to inform you, Private. You’ve caught my eye— simple as that. One of the most promising privates I’ve seen come from Fort Salem. You’ve received top scores in every training session since the moment you arrived,” Alder says, and Anacostia’s face flares with a blush. “You are a perfect fit for War College. An even more perfect fit for a career as a Drill Sergeant. What do you think, Private?”

“To be a Drill Sergeant would be an honor, ma’am,” Anacostia says, trying to keep herself calm. This is all she’s ever wanted— to be recognized by General Alder. 

“Good. I’ve already pushed my nomination through to the Dean of War College,” Alder says. Anacostia has to press her lips together hard to keep back the squeal wanting to come out; she has to be dignified and calm around the General. “There’s another reason I picked you, Quartermaine.” 

“Might I ask the reason why, ma’am?” 

“You’ll find out in a moment, Private. Keep close,” Alder instructs, and Anacostia shuts up. 

They walk through the winding grounds of Fort Salem towards the Necropolis. Anacostia has only been there a couple times during the duration of basic training, as her specialization lies in being a Knower, but she knows enough to know that the Necropolis is the place that the strangest of witches call home. 

Alder descends down into the depths of the Necropolis, and leads Anacostia through a maze of winding tunnels that she commits to memory. Her eyes roam over the stone brick walls and the bright lights overhead, but she keeps her focus on staying exactly three paces behind the General. 

They stop at a door with two guards posted in front of it. Alder signals, and they move, pulling the heavy door to the side. The metal screeches against the stone of the floor, and Anacostia tilts her head to the side to peek in. 

A small gasp slips out of her when she sees a small child, no older than four, strapped to a vertical bench and her arms splayed out. There are tight bindings to her wrists, and her eyes are wide open, glazed over in a ghostly white color. 

“Come on, Private,” Alder says, snapping Anacostia’s focus back. She inhales quietly before following the General inside the room. The biddies line up against the back wall, and the door shuts again. 

General Alder approaches the small child, looking upon her critically and with disdain in her gaze. 

“Do you know who this is, Quartermaine?” 

Anacostia shakes her head. “No, ma’am.” 

“This is a weakling,” Alder says, placing her hand onto the girl’s jaw and grabbing forcefully. “A witch with no voice. The living representation of dishonor upon witchkind.”

Alder lets go, and the girl remains still. 

In the background, Izadora hovers. Anacostia only knows Izadora in passing; she’s a Necro corporal, if the Necros even follow the same rank structure as the rest of the army. But the way Izadora stares at the girl with a greedy look has soured any positive associations Anacostia might have had regarding the other woman.

“Fortunately, even this weakling is still of use to me,” Alder muses. Anacostia is glad of the excuse to look away from the limp little body. “She makes me more powerful, Anacostia.” 

Anacostia is disturbed by the implication. She’s seen gruesome sights before. She’s seen the horrors of war from television and news reports, but this? This is entirely different. This is seeing a  _ child _ strapped down and held against her will for Alder’s use. 

“I am trusting you with this information, Quartermaine, because the moment you come back from War College, you’ll be posted here, on track to become a Drill Sergeant,” Alder says, crossing her arms in front of her. “You’ve become privy to the goal of Project Charon, Quartermaine. You tell anyone, and you can consider your position in War College as good as gone. You would become what I believe your fellow cadets call ‘war meat.’” 

Anacostia swallows. “I won’t tell anyone, ma’am.” Who would believe her even if she told? The rumors of Project Charon have always been just that, rumors. But this is something else entirely.

Alder smiles. “Good. I’m trusting you with this information, Quartermaine, because eventually, that weakling—” she jerks her thumb to the girl. “Will make me the most powerful witch to ever walk the Earth.” 

Anacostia keeps her gaze strong, though doubts begin crawling into her mind. 

~~~~~

_ Twelve Years Ago _

Fort Salem hasn’t changed much in two years. Alder is still overseeing the training, and Anacostia is now a corporal, assisting drill sergeants in training squadrons. She’s nervous— in War College, she pushed through every single class and training session as hard as she could, with the goal of coming back here to shape young witches into soldiers. 

And now, she’s here, and Alder is already sweeping her away again. 

“Corporal Quartermaine, a pleasure to see you again,” Alder says, offering her hand out to shake. Anacostia gives the General a firm shake. 

“You too, ma’am.” 

“I trust that your time in War College was beneficial?” 

“Extremely, ma’am,” Anacostia replies, folding her arms behind her back. 

“Good. Now, onto more important matters,” Alder says, gesturing to the Necropolis behind her. “You can likely imagine why I summoned you here.” 

“I can, ma’am.” Anacostia pushes away the uneasiness in her stomach, focusing instead on how proud her mother would be to see her daughter a corporal.

“Come, then,” Alder commands, walking. As Anacostia follows, she notices that a seventh biddy has been added to the ranks that fall in behind the general. The halls of the Necropolis are just as dark as they have always been, and Alder has a quickness to her pace that Anacostia struggles to decipher the meaning of. 

They arrive at a familiar door. The guards are the same one that Anacostia saw two years ago, and it’s opened swiftly as Alder approaches. She has no desire to see a reprise of the scene from two years ago; the one that has been a frequent nightmarish visitor all throughout her years at War College.

Anacostia braces herself, only for confusion to wash over her when she finds the room of her nightmares has changed. It’s been expanded somehow, and Izadora is inside. 

“Stay down!” Izadora shouts, before unleashing a windstrike that rattles Anacostia’s bones. Horror sets in when she sees a small girl go rolling across the concrete, dressed in torn clothing. For a moment, Anacostia thinks that the girl is dead, but she’s pushing herself back up onto her feet. 

“Still the same weakling you saw two years ago, Corporal,” Alder says, looking disappointed. The girl backs into the corner, with what Anacostia can only describe as pure fear in her eyes. Izadora looms over her, and the girl bursts into tears before falling to the ground in surrender. “Hard to believe I ever birthed that failure of a witch.” 

Anacostia glances between the girl and at Alder, before the similarities lock in. Alder’s child. Being tortured. 

Anacostia feels sick. 

“I’m entrusting you with the highly important task of keeping the weakling alive. If she dies…” Alder trails off, before clicking her tongue once. “No matter. The power I’ve garnered from her is good, but I need more.” 

The tone of Alder’s voice sounds power-hungry and tyrannical. A seed of doubt begins crawling into Anacostia’s mind. 

“Do you understand, Corporal?” Alder asks. 

Anacostia’s worked so hard to get here. She’s put hours upon hours of dedication into getting back to Fort Salem to become a drill sergeant. If she says no, and this becomes the reason she brings dishonor to her matriline…

“I understand, General,” Anacostia says, a shaky sigh coming from her chest. Alder looks proud. 

“Good, Corporal. I’ll leave you and Izadora to it, then,” Alder says, before turning away and walking out of the cell with her biddies in tow. 

Izadora is leaned over the girl, pressing a clamp around the small girl's throat before dropping her onto the ground. There’s a mutter of ‘weakling’ from Izadora as she walks back to a table, papers and all manner of ghastly tools are laid out across the surface. Anacostia bristles at the sight of the girl collapsed on the ground, and Izadora chuckles. 

“Don’t feel sorry for the weak thing,” Izadora says. “I have my doubt she’ll last much longer. The weak die and the strong survive.” 

“How old is she?” Anacostia asks, eyes still on the girl. She’s shaking, curled up into a ball. 

“Six. Last you saw her, she was four,” Izadora replies, turning around to lean on the table. She shakes her head in disgust. “She can’t even talk. Hardly worth being called a witch.” 

“How do you know?” 

“That she can’t talk? We made sure of it,” Izadora says. “Checked for vocal cords via surgery. She didn’t have any. An abomination.” 

The hatred that seeps from Izadora’s words is toxic, and Anacostia feels a small ball of rage forming in her stomach. No child should be tortured and tested simply because they have no vocal cords. It’s a vile act that leaves Anacostia with the taste of bile rising in her throat. 

Overhead, a bell rings, and Izadora curses. “I have to teach a class. If you’ll excuse me, Corporal.” 

Anacostia doesn’t say a word as Izadora leaves, and the door is shut again. There's a few seconds of tense silence, in which Anacostia waits for Izadora’s footsteps to fade, before she turns to the small child. 

The first step causes the child to flinch and curl up even further. Anacostia feels a part of her heart break at the sight, and she crouches down, no longer looming above the girl. 

“It’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you,” Anacostia says, holding her hand out. The girl peers at her, but there’s still terror wracking her small body with sobs. “I can help you feel better, I promise.” 

The girl sits up, pushing herself away from Anacostia when the Corporal moves forward a step. 

So, Anacostia stays still. She doesn’t have anywhere she needs to be for a while, no doubt an intentional choice on Alder’s part. Anacostia waits, and she sings a low song that the girl perks her head to, eyes wide with curiosity and no terror. 

“I can make those scratches go away,” Anacostia says quietly. The girl takes a timid step forward and Anacostia smiles at her., Her smile stays, even though her insides feel sick with rage that Alder would do this to her own daughter, simply for the crime of having been born without a voice. So, Anacostia says, “One day, you’ll be strong. You’ll be so strong you can lift a tree.” 

The girl tilts her head to the side. Another step forward. 

“You’ll get out of this. And when you do, you’ll be the strongest witch I’ll know, and I’ll be so proud,” Anacostia says, the words coming from her heart with no hesitation. The girl needs help, and Anacostia, in that moment, decides she’s willing to do whatever it takes to make this girl safe again. Whatever it takes. 

The girl all but runs at her, arms wide. Anacostia wraps her in a hug, careful to avoid the bruises purpling the girl’s skin. She closes her eyes, forming a link with the girl and pulling every single cut and scratch and bruise off of her and onto her own skin. Anacostia can feel the tingles of the scratches rubbing against her uniform, and the harshness of the bruises up and down her arms, but she doesn’t care, because the girl isn’t in pain anymore. 

“What’s your name?” Anacostia asks, and the girl leans down to the floor. In the light covering of dirt, the girl writes  _ Ceres.  _ Anacostia smiles, flattening a part of Ceres’s curly hair. “Okay, Ceres. It’s nice to meet you.” 

And for the first time, Ceres smiles. 

~~~~~

_ Ten Years Ago _

_ I can’t do this anymore _ , Anacostia thinks, staring up at the ceiling of the room she shares with Berryessa, a junior matrimonialist. Just today, she witnessed Ceres being whipped for not following orders, for not giving her well of power to Alder. And like every other time, Anacostia took the wounds onto her own skin, because Ceres shouldn’t have to continue suffering. 

She’s only eight years old, for Goddess’s sake. 

Anacostia shifts on the bed, groaning as she sits up. The whip marks transferred from Ceres to Anacostia are by no means light, and it hurts to even move her arms. 

“What happened to you?” Berryessa asks, looking up from the book she’s reading. 

“Nothing,” Anacostia replies, resting her arms on her knees. 

Alder sees Anacostia as a close confidant, and Anacostia will be damned if she lets that go because she opened her mouth. 

But… 

Seeing Ceres bite back tears because crying is  _ weak _ and she’s already a  _ weakling _ hurts Anacostia to witness. Seeing Ceres get poked and prodded by devices to feed off her power and make her even weaker makes Anacostia furious. 

And yet, she’s been able to do  _ nothing _ about it. 

There’s only so much Anacostia can do by herself. She’s struggling as it is. 

“You can tell me, you know,” Berryessa comments, eyes focused on her book again. “Whatever it is, I can probably help you.” 

Anacostia scoffs. “I doubt you could help me.”

Berryessa looks up, and she snaps her book closed. She places it on her nightstand, then looks at Anacostia. “Try me, Corporal.” 

Anacostia eyes the red-haired woman for some time, the gears in her head grinding. “What would do if you saw someone getting tortured, day after day?” 

“Help them. It’s what we trained for,” Berryessa answers easily, shrugging her shoulders. 

_ If only she knew the truth _ , Anacostia thinks, rubbing her palms together. 

Berryessa raises a brow. “Why? Is something going on with one of the cadets?” 

“No, it’s—” Anacostia silences herself. Can she really allow herself to trust Berryessa? The junior matrimonialist is one of the most dedicated people Anacostia has ever seen, besides herself. Would Berryessa go running to Alder and snitch on Anacostia, or would she risk her neck to help?

Anacostia licks her lips, sitting up straight. “There’s a girl being held prisoner in the Necropolis.” 

Berryessa doesn’t blink. “There are dungeons there for a reason.” 

“She’s Alder’s daughter,” Anacostia whispers, and Berryessa’s eyes widen. “No voice. Alder’s using her for more power.” 

“The rumors…?” Berryessa looks dumbfounded. 

“They’re all true,” Anacostia confirms with a low sigh. 

Berryessa is shifting out of the bed. “How can I help?” 

“You—”

“I’m helping, Anacostia,” Berryessa says firmly. “I protect witches, and I won’t let this stand, no matter what happens.” 

Anacostia inhales, and nods. “Okay.” 

Together they work out a plan. 

Their window of opportunity happens a week later, when Anacostia has the day off and Alder’s away for a press conference. The other generals have been left in charge of the Fort, and it gives Anacostia the perfect window of opportunity.

This is their only shot.

Anacostia walks down the hallways of the Necropolis, her boots clicking against the floor. Her scourge feels heavy in her hand, and she inhales as she turns the bend. The two guards in front of the door barely look at her as they begin to open the door. 

“Corporal Izadora isn’t here, ma’am, but you can go in,” the guard on the left says. 

_ Good.  _

Anacostia snaps her scourge forward, and the weighted head lands a solid blow to the side of the guard’s neck. The other one barely has time to unfurl her scourge before Anacostia is on her, wrapping her arm around the guard’s neck and squeezing. The first guard comes swinging at her, but Anacostia kicks her square in the temple, watching her slump to the ground. The struggling guard in Anacostia’s arms quickly goes limp, and she lowers her to the floor beside her compatriot. 

Anacostia reels her scourge in, setting it on her hip before pressing her hands to the foreheads of the guards. She vocalizes a low seed, giving the guards a temporary dose of amnesia that will cause them to forget what just happened. 

She stands, and goes inside the room. 

“Ceres—” Anacostia freezes at the sight of a single table in the middle of the room, a white tarp draped over it. Most of the equipment has been moved out, and a deep sense of dread fills Anacostia. It’s only been a day since Anacostia last saw her, this can’t be possible. 

Anacostia walks over to the table, and pulls back the tarp slowly. 

She gasps. 

Ceres’s face is blank, her eyes open wide and staring blankly at the ceiling. Anacostia presses her finger to Ceres’s neck, and feels no pulse. 

“Fuck, no,” Anacostia whispers. The weight of her promise settles on her shoulders. She promised Ceres she would get out of here, that she wouldn’t suffer her whole life. The promise is broken. Anacostia stumbles away from the table, almost crashing into another workbench tucked in the corner of the cell. She plants her palms on the cool steel, hovering over the notes and papers scattered across the surface. 

_ Time of death: 4:47 AM _

_ Cause of death: unknown _

_ Request for experimentation has been approved. Tools required are as listed below.  _

Anacostia can’t bear to read any more. They’re going to cut Ceres open like she’s meat. 

She won’t stand for it. The thought of letting Izadora lay her hands on this girl any more than she already has causes unbridled rage to flood through Anacostia’s bloodstream. 

Anacostia decides that no child should be picked apart by vultures. Maybe she would do anything for General Alder, the woman who gave her a home after her parents died, but she won't allow this. The goddess granted this child the peace of death and that shouldn't be sullied. 

The plan stays. She pulls her hood over her head. 

Anacostia goes back to Ceres, wrapping the tarp around her to cover her up, before hoisting her up into her arms. She’s lighter than a feather, malnourished from years of underfeeding and torture. Anacostia’s blood boils as she walks out of the room.She is cautious and looks down every hallway for wandering Necros. 

Somehow, she makes it out of the Necropolis. The darkness of evening shading into night provides cover as Anacostia moves quickly, clutching Ceres’s body tightly to her chest. 

If she couldn’t get Ceres out alive, the least she can do is give her to someone who will give her a proper burial. Tears form at the corners of Anacostia’s eyes the longer she runs through the forest to the rendezvous point. She failed Ceres. 

But she keeps pushing, because she won’t let Ceres suffer anymore. 

Ahead, Berryessa awaits, parked on a road that borders Fort Salem in an old, unused military jeep. She’s out of the car in seconds when she sees Anacostia coming, and her face is a mask of panic when she sees the white blanket. 

“What happened?” 

“She died,” Anacostia says, and Berryessa’s face pinches. 

“Put her in the back. Quickly,” Berryessa urges, and opens the back doors of the jeep. Anacostia places Ceres gently on the floor of the jeep, and Berryessa helps situate her. Berryessa lifts the tarp from Ceres’s face, before squeezing Anacostia’s shoulder. “I don’t know the whole story, but I know you did everything you could, Anacostia.” 

“She’s dead, Berryessa,” Anacostia whispers, her voice cracking. 

“And I’ll make sure she goes somewhere where she won’t suffer any more, and she’ll be buried in peace,” Berryessa says, her gaze is as serious as it is comforting. “Now go. I’ll take care of the rest from here.” 

The junior matrimonialist turns away, and Anacostia shuffles. “Berryessa, wait.” 

“Hm?” 

“Thank you,” Anacostia says, pouring every ounce of sincerity into her words. “For helping.” 

“Of course. It’s what I trained to do,” Berryessa says with a small smile, before shutting the doors. Moments later, the jeep is motoring away. Anacostia spares one last glance, before turning and jogging back to Fort Salem, her heart weighing heavily in her chest. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

  
  


Raelle feels sick to her stomach the moment she’s let go from the memories, and she’s surging towards the garbage bin. The contents of her meager breakfast come up within seconds, and Tally is there, rubbing her back and holding her hair. 

“It’s okay, let it out,” Tally says, her voice soothing. When Raelle comes up, her stomach is empty and her mouth tastes like burning acid, Tally gives her a cup of water. Raelle downs it, and Anacostia sighs. 

Feelings are rushing through Raelle faster than her mind can process them. Ceres  _ died? _ Izadora wanted to experiment on her dead body?

“Is that why she’s…” Abigail gestures with her hands, and Anacostia nods. 

“Side effect of coming back to life when she should’ve gone to the afterlife,” Anacostia says, tapping her knuckles against the wood as she leans back. “Ceres is… an anomaly. She was one before she died. Now that she’s died a second time… I don’t want to think about what Alder will do.” 

“She can’t do anything, right? Ceres is going to Lady Rosethorn?” Tally looks panicked over the prospect. Raelle feels sick again. 

“Alder is… not the mentor I remember, anymore. Her decisions have become more and more questionable of late, and if Alder has her way, then…” Anacostia shakes her head. 

Raelle is still reeling over everything she saw. The memories from Anacostia’s mind were so vivid— she felt like she was actually  _ there _ watching a young Ceres get whipped and scratched and punched and—

She presses her hand to her mouth and bites her lip to keep from breaking down again. 

“How did you heal her?” Raelle asks finally. It is the first thought she is able to voice. “I’ve never been able to.” 

“It was before she died. Before her first death, she was still human, her soul tethered to Earth. After she came back from Limbo, I suppose that her tether split in two— one here, one in Limbo,” Anacostia answers. “But that’s guesswork at best. 

There’s a few moments of silence, and Raelle can’t stop seeing the flashes of Ceres falling and the cracks of the whips. 

Raelle is going to murder Izadora. 

“All I know is that my bond with her never broke,” Anacostia says, looking up. “A part of me insisted she was alive, but I never fully believed it. I didn’t think it could be true until I saw her.” 

_ Hold onto that bond, and don’t you dare let go,  _ Lady Rosethorn’s words echo in Raelle’s mind. 

“What’s to stop her from coming back again?” Raelle’s voice is so low that they barely hear her, but Abigail brings her head up, a slow realization coming over her. Raelle looks at Anacostia. “You said you felt a bond with her, right?” 

“Faint, it was barely there, but yes,” Anacostia confirms with a nod of her head. Raelle immediately pulls the velcro of her jacket apart and pulls up her shirt. The Limbo mark is bold in the sunlight, and the others gasp at the sight of it. 

“I went to Limbo with Ceres, and when I came back, I got this,” Raelle says. “A bond with Ceres.” 

“Can you get to her?” Anacostia stands up, approaching Raelle with seriousness in her stance and a slimmer of hope in her eyes. 

“I can try,” Raelle whispers. She presses her hand to the mark, her skin freezing to the touch, and she shuts her eyes. 

_ Ceres! _ Raelle shouts into the emptiness of her mind.  _ Ceres, I’m here! _

The mark burns, and Raelle pulls her hand away, as if she’s touched a hot pan. “Fuck.” 

“Did you get through?” Tally asks, eyes glancing down to the mark. Raelle drops her shirt. 

“I don’t know. It burned me before I could get a response,” Raelle says. 

“We have to get to Ceres before Alder does,” Abigail says. Anacostia purses her lips. 

“If I know Alder, then she’ll have Ceres at the Necropolis,” Anacostia says, already heading out the door. “Let’s go.” 

Raelle feels a faint tug in the back of her mind, and her heart skips a beat as she runs behind the others. 

~~~~~

_ Ceres _

_ Just keep running, just keep running.  _

Ceres hurdles over a rock, and she spares a glance over her shoulder. She sees three heads and snapping jaws and she keeps hauling ass. 

_ Seriously, what is it about me that I keep dying? This is the second time, for fucks sake.  _

Ceres hopes that the Guardian (who is currently chasing her) isn’t hungry for breakfast. Or dinner? Nightfall doesn’t exist in Limbo. It’s always daytime, which in most cases, is fantastic. 

But when there’s a gigantic  _ dog _ with teeth sharper than knives chasing Ceres. It’s not fun, and she’s not enjoying it whatsoever. 

This is the last thing she wants to be doing right this second. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ , Ceres thinks, pumping her arms. She’s been running for— fuck, she doesn’t even  _ know _ how long. What she does know is that if she doesn’t find her voice— find her  _ soul _ , she’ll be stuck here forever. 

That, or she’ll get munched on. 

Neither are very good options. 

She hears the growls of the Guardian get closer, and she swerves to the left, trying to throw the Guardian off balance. Ceres’s foot digs into the ground and a rock in front of her sends her sprawling forward onto the ground. 

_ Well, it was good while it lasted,  _ Ceres thinks, staring up at the gray sky as she rolls onto her back. The heavy footsteps of the Guardian walking over to her shoots adrenaline through Ceres’s bloodstream, but she knows running is useless. The Guardian was Cerberus to the Greeks, the hellhound that patrols the lands of Limbo to claim souls of the dead. 

Ceres is no different. 

She closes her eyes tightly, letting her body go slack. Perhaps if she plays dead (does that even count in Limbo?), the Guardian won’t touch her. 

The first time around, Ceres was lucky enough to be near her soul to quickly reclaim it and go back to Earth, but now? Ceres has run out of luck from her chalice, and it seems doom has been poured instead.

The heavy breathing of the Guardian fills Ceres’s ears, and the dampness of the snout touching her arm. The three-headed hound huffs, pushing Ceres’s arm. 

_ Hurry up and just eat me already, you overgrown lapdog,  _ Ceres thinks, and the dog barks, a booming noise that nearly shatters Ceres’s eardrums. Ceres dares to open her eyes and—

The Guardian is sitting on his hind legs, his three heads all focused on Ceres. 

_ Okay, the fuck? _

Ceres pushes herself to her feet, and steps to the right. The Guardian growls with all three heads in unison. Ceres steps back to the midpoint, before stepping to the left. Again, the Guardian growls, one head barking incessantly until Ceres goes back. Ceres keeps her hands out in front of her to shield herself (useless against a twenty foot hellhound with glaring red eyes), and she steps back. 

The Guardian makes no noise. Ceres takes another step backwards, brows knotting together in confusion, and the Guardian merely stands up, walking to Ceres. The head in the middle whuffs before pawing the ground. 

_ Is he… guiding me? _

Ceres keeps walking, and sure enough, the Guardian follows patiently, the shadows that move around his glossy black coat floating into the air like wisps. 

Well, he certainly fits the title of hellhound, that’s for sure. 

Ceres stops, and the Guardian stops, ears perking up. Ceres turns until she’s face to face with the colossal hound, and slowly, she extends her hand out. 

The hound sniffs her hand, before licking it with a tongue that seems far too large for his size. Then, he plops down onto the ground with a loud  _ thud _ and rolls over onto his back. Ceres moves slowly, before scratching the stomach of the Guardian. All three heads stick their tongues out, and Ceres is silently laughing.

Who fucking knew the Guardian of Limbo, the three-headed terror, was a softie?

_ Can you help me find my soul and be a good boy?  _ Ceres asks through the bond, and the dog immediately rolls onto his legs, leaning down. Ceres grins before grabbing onto the thick, cold fur of the hellhound and pulling herself up. 

She barely has time to adjust before the Guardian is sprinting off, carrying Ceres with him. 

  
  



	12. solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "they made a desert and called it peace"

Alder has never seen a child as disrespectful and blunt as Khalida. Now, granted, they’re from a tribe located far, far away from civilization, but Alder would think they would learn  _ some _ type of respect towards their elders, hm?

“Teach me your songs, little one,” Alder says, kneeling to the small girl. “They will help us, help  _ you, _ save your people.” 

Khalida doesn’t look the least bit interested, but she does turn away from the potted plants she was admiring. She speaks Mothertongue to Alder. 

_ “You’ve made yourself a fool in the eyes of the Tarim already, Sarah, _ ” Khalida says.  _ “You say you won’t abandon us, but you’ve already abandoned one of your own.” _

Alder blinks. There’s no possible way this child knows about—

“What are you talking about?” Alder asks, and Khalida tilts her head to the side, seeming to look straight through her. 

_ “Your daughter, Sarah,”  _ Khalida responds, looking bored. She looks away, stroking the leaf of a plant as she says,  _ “You birthed a thunderstorm strong enough to tear the seam between life and death and dared to call it weak.”  _

Alder’s eyes widen as Khalida looks at her again. 

_ “Death doesn’t take kindly to her children being insulted and abused, _ ” Khalida muses, the plants around them wilting as she begins clicking her tongue, followed by some pitched whistling. As the note lingers, the once green leaves of plants throughout the conservatory turn brown, drying up and dying. Khalida stops, and she locks eyes with Alder.  _ “And for you, Death especially dislikes you abusing her daughter.”  _

Alder’s confusion is a mix of both real and fake. The girl didn’t… vocalize? She withered plants with nothing more than a whistle.“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no daughter.” 

_ “Your lies are worthless. Your soul awaits judgement, and I, for one, cannot wait,”  _ Khalida says. She turns to the dead plants.  _ “Life may die here, but Death’s daughters never do. You’d be wise to apologize before you anger the Guardian’s favorite.”  _

The Guardian…? 

Alder stands up from her knees, and the young girl merely turns back to the plants, clicking her tongue in a pattern that causes the leaves to come back to life, new flowers sprouting within seconds. 

Alder whirls, walking out of the observatory. She needs to find Izadora. Now. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

“She’ll be in the Necropolis!” Anacostia shouts, leading the group as they sprint on the pathways. 

Raelle’s heart is thundering in her chest, faster than it’s ever has in her entire life. The mark on her side flares with heat, and it causes panic to surge through her. Something’s happening. 

Abigail leaps over a log, and Tally ducks under some foliage. Nearby sergeants and privates shoot them bewildered glances, but don’t seem to give it much thought otherwise. A simple training exercise, they believe. 

If only they knew what was at stake. 

With every second that passes, the threat of permanent death looms. If Alder gets there before them, then—

Raelle doesn’t want to think about it. 

The building of the Necropolis comes into sight, and they turn around the corner of the stone building to get to the entryway. 

“Wait, guys, stop!” Tally shouts. She freezes, and hums a low seed, eyes fluttering. She’s scrying, looking for Ceres. Tally’s eyes refocus, and she whips around and runs deeper into the forest. “She’s over here!” 

“Do you smell smoke?!” Abigail exclaims, her face scrunching up. Raelle sniffs the air, and the putrid smell of woodsmoke and ash is carried on the wind. 

Anacostia’s face pales. “Move it!” 

They sprint, following Tally as the redhead leads them through the winding woods. The smell becomes even thicker the farther they go in, and Raelle squints through the trees. Flickers of red and orange appear through the brush.  _ Fire.  _ That realization gives Raelle a second wind and sends her crashing forward, overtaking Tally in a few strides _. _

The smoke rises in thick plumes, wafting up to the canopy and blocking out the sun. When they reach the clearing, Raelle’s knees buckle and a scream comes out of her lips. 

In the middle of the fire, Ceres’s body is tied to a post and her head hanging limply. A dozen feet away from the fire stand Alder and Izadora, the biddies hovering behind them. 

The fire is wrapped around Ceres, rising up and up until it threatens to engulf her. 

“ _ NOOOOO!” _ Raelle screams, fingers digging furrows in the dirt. Power floods through her, and a clap of thunder sounds from the formerly cloudless sky. 

Alder has a triumphant smile on her face, the flames dancing in her eyes. Izadora, behind her, looks disappointed, but relieved at the same time. 

“How  _ dare _ you!” Abigail shouts, running at Alder with a fury that Raelle’s never seen from her before. Alder lets out a windstrike, throwing Abigail back like a ragdoll. 

“You’ve lost!” Alder says, pure insanity on her face. She holds a hand out to the burning body with a grin that can only be described as bloodthirsty. “She’s gone! She’s never coming back!” 

_ Raelle.  _

The blonde looks up. 

_ Raelle, _ a voice whispers, so very faint, in the back of Raelle’s mind. A feeling of cold crawls up her spine, like a glacier freeze.  _ I’m coming.  _

Her eyes, in the midst of the chaos, remain glued to the burning post. Anacostia is toe to toe with Izadora, scourges whipping left and right. Tally is helping Abigail to her feet. And Alder is just  _ laughing _ with pleasure in her face. 

“Face it!” Alder says, looking at Raelle. “I won! She’s dead!” 

“If you think she’s dead,” Raelle whispers, standing up to her feet, shoulders shaking in pure rage. “Then you don’t know your daughter as well as you think you do.” 

“She’s right,” The voice of Khalida comes beside Raelle, and Raelle looks to see her and Adil standing there. Khalida has a small, secretive smile on her face. “Death doesn’t discriminate, but she surely keeps her wardens safe.” 

Alder’s face morphs into panic, as she spins around to look at the burning post. 

The flames have only grown higher, but they seem to bend away from Ceres’s body, as if the flames were allergic to her. They rise towards the tallest branches of the trees, and the clearing seems to go silent— Anacostia has finally subdued Izadora after a valiant fight and both Tally and Abigail have recovered from the windstrike Alder sent their way. 

Khalida grins. 

The jagged wound in the center of Ceres’s chest flares with a brightness that can be seen through flame and fabric. It begins blindingly bright, before dimming and fading away. 

The ropes tied around her wrists snap easily, frayed from the fires burning around her. Ceres eyes open, and she throws the ropes to the side, smoke curling from the remains of the thick twine. 

Ceres looks  _ pissed _ . 

_ Good to see you again, Rae, _ the voice calls out, and Raelle nearly starts crying, because that’s Ceres talking to her, through their bond, without even having to touch. 

Ceres pulls off the ropes around her waist, the flames dancing around her as she stalks down from the platform. The moment her feet touch the ground, the flames extinguish, leaving only tendrils of smoke trailing up from the dying embers. Steam billows off of her skin, and there’s a purpose in her movements. Ceres’s shirt is charred and frayed, and soot is smeared on her skin, but the relief that Raelle feels in her chest is indescribable. 

“Impossible,” Alder whispers. Ceres tilts her head to the side, an eyebrow crooking up. Alder bristles, barely hiding her shock, “You should be dead.” 

“What is dead may never die,” Khalida muses in response, Adil placing a hand on his sister’s shoulder. 

Ceres is striding forward, anger lacing her movements. Anacostia has the smart idea to throw her scourge to Ceres, who catches it with ease and sends a violent snap towards Alder. The General barely dodges the heavy head of the whip, rolling to the side before sending a windstrike towards Ceres. 

Ceres slides back in the dirt, but she recovers easily. 

Raelle locks eyes with Abigail, who nods before looking at Tally. Tally gives a thumbs up. Raelle mouths  _ windstrike. _

“Now!” Raelle shouts, and the three of them unleash a windstrike in unison, sending an explosion of wind that knocks Alder into the air. Ceres grins before whipping her scourge into the sky, the thick rope wrapping around Alder’s ankle before Ceres yanks her downward. 

Alder slams into the ground, and before she can even consider getting up, Ceres is dragging her closer with the scourge. Alder grapples with the whip curled around her ankle, and manages to slip it off. She scrambles to her feet, only to be bowled over by Anacostia who tackles her to the ground. 

Anacostia straddles the General, raising her arm back before slugging Alder in the face. 

“Damn!” Raelle says instinctively. Khalida snorts. 

Alder throws Anacostia off her, but Ceres is grabbing the back of Alder’s uniform before she can even throw a punch at Anacostia. Alder whirls around, and it becomes a hand to hand fight, Ceres dodging and weaving to avoid Alder. What Alder lacks in speed, she makes up for in experience. And what Ceres lacks in experience, she makes up for in endurance. 

Anacostia shrugs off the dirt before going in again, and it’s vicious. Alder is fending off both of them, and Raelle can see the combined rage towards Alder coming from Anacostia and Ceres. Anacostia watched Ceres be tortured, and Ceres dealt with being a lab rat for eight years. 

It’s the culmination of everything that is coming back to bite Alder in the ass. 

_ I just need to keep her still long enough, _ Ceres says, out of breath. She takes a punch to the stomach from Alder, and Raelle feels a twinge of pain in her gut.  _ To bring her under.  _

“Bring her under…” Raelle whispers.  _ Limbo.  _ She needs a tether. 

Anacostia drives her fist into Alder’s stomach, and Ceres shoves her back. Alder stumbles, and Anacostia shoots her knee up into Alder’s face. Raelle flinches at the wicked crunch of bone and watches as Ceres moves in to wrap her hands around Alder’s throat. 

The telltale black marks spread across Alder’s skin, stretching out from Ceres’s hand like a dark web spun by a spider, and Alder drops to her knees, her teeth gritted in a rictus of pain. Ceres’s teeth are bared, and Anacostia backs away. 

A scream rips from Alder’s throat and her eyes roll up in her head. She collapses to the ground in a heap, Ceres falling right beside her. 

Raelle searches her surroundings, eyes looking for anything that can be used to keep Ceres tethered, to keep her body on Earth. Khalida puts a hand on Raelle’s arm. 

“Let me take care of this,” Khalida says, before taking Adil’s hand. Together, they whistle a high note that shakes the dirt beneath Raelle’s feet. Vines sprout from the dark earth, wrapping around the two women laying in the dirt. 

When the whistle trails off, Alder is left encased in thick, mossy vines, keeping her arms and body pinned down and her mouth firmly closed. Ceres has some vines wrapped around her wrist, keeping her tethered to the Earth. 

“Uh, what’s going on?” Tally asks, glancing between the two on the floor. 

Raelle swallows. “They’re in Limbo.” 

“Where Death’s wardens are at their most powerful,” Khalida says, holding onto Adil’s hand. She sighs. “This death will only be the beginning of years of suffering. Death remembers everything.” 

They turn away and begin walking towards Fort Salem. 

“So…” Abigail trails off, nudging Alder’s head lightly with her boot, as if checking to see if Alder’s passed out. Alder’s head lolls to the side, and Abigail looks up. “What now?” 

Raelle purses her lips. “We wait.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! so sorry for the long wait. life turned upside down for me. not to worry, as I will try and post the chapters on a regular schedule again.


	13. sentenced to the gallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alder experiences a hell delivered by the woman who crawled back from the dead. twice.

The wooden platform beneath Ceres creaks as she steps onto it, and as she looks around, a part of her wonders how Alder has let herself live for so long. 

Around her are buildings, constructed from the threads of Alder’s oldest memories. It’s old Salem Town, with wooden buildings and dirt roads; a far cry from what Salem is today. There’s an appeal to it, Ceres admits— the grass is a shade greener than it is in real life, and the air smells clearer. 

Ceres flicks the rope hanging in front of her. It’s a noose, and Ceres stands on the gallows where Alder’s sister was hanged. 

And Alder? She’s crumpled on the ground. She has yet to wake, and Ceres is tempted to throw a rock at her. 

A few feet from the gallows, Tribus huffs. 

“Calm down,” Ceres whispers to the recently christened hellhound. Tribus whines, pawing the ground, and Ceres rolls her eyes. “Yes, you’ll get your turn, hush.”

Alder begins to stir, a groan rising from the General as she pushes herself up. Her eyes drift upward, and there’s shock, plain as day when she registers her surroundings. Tribus lets out a growl, and Ceres crosses her arms. 

“How is this possible?” Alder whispers, looking around at the town she once called home. 

“A lot of things are possible here,” Ceres answers, delighting as pure disbelief flashes across Alder’s face. “Oh, surprised to hear me?” 

Ceres hops down from the gallows platform, taking a few steps forward. 

“Welcome to Limbo, Alder,” Ceres says, with a slight grin on her face. “I thought I should give you a little taste of what I had to experience for, mm, eight years?” 

“How are you—” 

“Talking?” Ceres finishes with a slight grin on her face. It melts away as she shrugs. “Long story short, Alder, I was born without a voice, because my voice was here. The first time I died, I found it, and then after I simply kept coming back. Limbo is my home, and it’s where I have the high ground.” 

“You’ll never be as powerful as I am, weakling,” Alder hisses. 

“Not in reality, no,” Ceres muses. Behind her, Tribus growls at Alder, all three heads snarling with their teeth bared. Ceres places her palm on the hellhounds coat, soothing him. “But here? Oh, Alder, you can’t even  _ begin _ to imagine what I can do.”

Alder, left with nothing else to do, sprints at Ceres with a fearsome war cry. Ceres flicks her wrist, and a pillar of stone shoots up from the ground. Alder promptly runs into it, and Ceres can’t help but quietly chuckle. 

“Quite frankly, Alder, you should give up,” Ceres says, the stone pillar sinking back into the ground with a rumble. The General stands back up, bearing a bloody nose. “Try all you want, but… I’ll stop you. I have the strength to stop you now when I didn’t have the strength to stop you a decade ago.” 

“You will always be worthless,” Alder spits, now grasping at straws. 

“To you, perhaps,” Ceres says with a careless shrug. “But not to Raelle, or Anacostia, or Berryessa. And certainly not Lady Rosethorn, either.” 

Alder slings her arm forward in a punch, and Ceres lets herself take it. Her head snaps to the left, and Alder herself looks shocked that it even landed. 

“For a woman with over three hundred years of experience in military tactics, you sure suck ass right now,” Ceres comments. She reaches forward, grabbing Alder’s arm and twisting it behind her back, pushing her down onto her knees towards the gallows. “You see that, Alder? That rope?” 

Alder hisses, and Ceres pulls harder, nearly dislocating Alder’s shoulder. 

“I could make you see it all over again,” Ceres whispers. “I could make you watch your sister die.” 

There’s a low snarl from Alder, and Ceres pulls tighter. She shuts her eyes, and calls out to the afterlife, reaching for someone who’s long been dead. 

“Or…” Ceres says, eyes still shut. The afterlife responds, a crow of voices in her ear. “I could let her live.” 

Ceres’s eyes snap open, and in front of them, in a ghostly white, is Alder’s sister, dressed exactly as she was the night she died. Ceres places her palm between Alder’s shoulder and gives a quick shove. The General collapses onto her knees, her head lifted to look at her sister. 

“Hello, Sarah,” Lydia Alder whispers, a hint of a smile on her face. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Ly… Lydia?” Alder’s voice cracks, and she stands slowly, reaching out to Lydia. There’s a small cry of relief from Alder as she leans forward, arms wrapping around her sister in a hug that makes Ceres wonder if Alder does have feelings. “Lydia, I’ve missed you.” 

“I have too, Sarah. Is the world as good as we imagined it?” Lydia asks, and the similarities between them are staggering. The same sharp bone structure, the dark hair… Ceres thinks for a moment she would’ve liked to have Lydia as an aunt. In the same world where she would have had an actual mother.

Lydia glances over at Ceres, as if noticing her for the first time. “Who’s this?” 

Alder looks at Ceres, and swallows. “That is…” 

“I’m your niece, Lydia,” Ceres says, smiling. The connection clicks on Lydia’s face, and she squeals. 

“Sarah, you had a child! My goddess, she looks so much like you!” Lydia exclaims, and just as Ceres intended, hurt and guilt flickers on Alder’s face. 

“Lydia, I—” 

“She’s not a good mother,” Ceres cuts Alder off, and Lydia’s face falls. “Actually, Sarah abused me for eight years. Used me to make herself more powerful.” 

“Sarah, is this true?” Lydia looks crestfallen at the prospect of her dear sister turning out so terribly. Alder opens her mouth to respond, but she says nothing, coloring with what might be shame. Lydia shoves Alder away from her, disgust coming over her features. “No, this isn’t the Sarah I remember. The Sarah I know was  _ nice _ , adored by our neighbors—” 

“Shh,” Ceres hushes Lydia, approaching the woman and taking her hands. “It’s okay, Lydia Alder. You can go back to the afterlife now.” 

Lydia blinks, and she fades, like mist under the morning sun, drifting away until she’s entirely gone. When Ceres turns back around, Alder has collapsed onto her knees again, tears streaming down her face. Ceres kneels down, grabbing Alder’s jaw and forcing her to look up at her. 

“Hurts when someone you love is disgusted by you, doesn’t it?” Ceres hums, raising a brow. “I would have given you whatever you wanted, mother, but you took what you wanted,  _ ripped _ it from me. I would have done anything to please you, to stop the pain. I hope you like pain, Sarah Alder.”

Ceres winds her arm back, and slams it forward. It cracks against Alder’s face, sending her onto her back. Ceres leans over her, pinning her on the platform.

“You want to know what it feels like to have no voice? To feel powerless for your entire life?!” Ceres shouts. “Huh?! Do you!?” 

Ceres has to remind herself that even though she wants Alder to experience every second of pain that she went through, this isn’t the justice that she deserves. It’s revenge, and she’s said it once before. Revenge is sweet, but ultimately it turns sour. 

“I pity you,” Ceres whispers. “If you had bothered to raise me like an actual daughter, maybe you could’ve been greater.  _ We _ could have been greater. But you were  _ foolish _ and  _ selfish _ in your quest for power.” 

Ceres glances to Tribus, who has been sitting patiently and waiting for the past few minutes. 

Ceres hesitates.  _ Is this really the right choice? Do I let her go to the afterlife?  _

Ceres thinks of the Biddies, restrained and held against their will, their youth and vitality sucked away from them just to make Alder live longer. She thinks of Anacostia, the fosterling who looked up to Alder, only to find that Alder wasn’t the mentor she believed her to be. She thinks of Abigail and Libba, and their families, who have given everything they have for the military. She thinks of Tally, bright-eyed and enthusiastic to join, only to see that the military is darker than it’s ever been. She thinks of Berryessa, who kept her safe when she died the first time. 

She thinks of Raelle, who’s waiting for her up above. 

“Sarah Alder,” Ceres begins, “You’ve committed numerous atrocities in the name of justice, but all you have done is poison this world with your hatred of anyone different from you. Your time here is over, and may the afterlife treat you better than you ever treated me.” 

Tribus howls, the three heads all tipped back to the sky. Ceres takes a few steps backwards until she’s next to Tribus, and she pats his fur a few times. 

“Make it hurt, but make it quick, Tribus,” Ceres whispers, stroking his leg. He’s massive, in the sense that Ceres would have to stretch to touch his stomach. Tribus huffs, before taking slow steps towards Alder. 

The General looks defeated, as she slouches on her knees. Ceres doesn’t feel a single shred of guilt in her heart when Alder looks at her pleadingly. It’s too late; nothing can be fixed or saved now. 

Ceres turns around, lips pursing together tightly. From her eye, a lone tear slips out as Tribus lets out one final growl, before the sound of bones crunching fills the air. 

It’s cathartic. The source of Ceres’s pain and anguish is finally gone, sentenced to eternity in the afterlife. It’s an ending better than Alder deserved, but Ceres is incapable of malevolence. A part of her wanted to torture Alder for hours in the same way that she was tortured herself— prodded, electrocuted, whipped, punched… 

But that’s not the person Lady Rosethorn raised Ceres to be. 

One the sounds of crunching and cracking end, Ceres turns back around. All that remains of Alder are medals, spit out and covered in hound slobber. 

Good. Let them rot. 

Tribus looks at Ceres for a few moments, before padding over. 

He huffs lowly, butting his middle head against Ceres. 

“Mm, good boy,” Ceres says, patting the thick muscle of his jaw, before scratching the ears of the other heads. Ius, the right head. Sini, the left head. And Ietas, the middle head. Collectively, though, they’re Tribus. Ceres pats Tribus again. “Yeah, I gotta go.” 

He whines, and licks a bold stripe up Ceres’s face. 

“Oh, how nice,” Ceres laughs. “Go on, you’ve got a job to do, boy. I’ll be back soon, I promise.” 

Tribus barks, before turning around and jogging away, but he glances back a couple times. Just a big hound that needs some love. 

Ceres goes on her way. 

It’s a brief walk that turns into her summoning a pond from the ground, deeper than a well. It’s a reminder of when she and Raelle first kissed. 

And a good way to go back up. 

Ceres stands at the edge of the pond she made, facing away from it, before opening her arms to the sides. She shuts her eyes, and lets herself fall back into the crystal waters. 

~~~~~

_ Raelle _

It’s been ten minutes, and they’re still standing in the forest. 

“How long does this normally take?” Abigail asks, beginning to pace between the trees. 

“Anywhere from five minutes to ten hours,” Raelle says, tucking her hands into her pockets. “Time passes differently in Limbo. You wouldn’t understand.” 

“I can’t believe you went there and didn’t tell us,” Tally comments, arms crossed. “What was it like?” 

“Gray. Dirt everywhere. Really, really flat,” Raelle says, and Tally’s face scrunches up. “But Ceres made it beautiful. Made it into a pond surrounded by redwood trees, like the ones you’d see in NorCal.”

Anacostia is watching the Biddies, who have done nothing but stand silently, oddly enough. “Who do you think is winning?”

“Ceres,” The unit says in agreement, and Anacostia smiles. 

“She better be winning, so she comes back,” Raelle says, walking over and kneeling by Ceres. 

Tally shifts in place. “What happens after? If Ceres wins and Alder...” 

“A problem to be solved later,” Anacostia muses, walking up the line of biddies. She freezes. “Look.” 

Raelle flips her hair over her shoulder to peer at the Biddies, and her jaw drops. Before her eyes the Biddies are changing. Their youth is seeping back into their skin in a slow trickle— wrinkles are disappearing into smooth skin, and their hair is gaining its color back. The Biddies look perplexed and confused, looking at their hands and each other as they return to the younger versions of themselves. 

“If they’re changing back, then—” Raelle stops, whirling her head to look at Alder. Alder’s skin is turning pale and ashy, her hair going snow white and wrinkles sagging on her cheeks. 

“Oh my god,” Abigail whispers.

“C’mon, babe,” Raelle whispers to Ceres, wiping some soot off of her forehead. Ceres’s eyes are eerily white, and Raelle assumes that's a part of going to Limbo. Has to be. 

A few moments later, Ceres blinks, her irises shading back to brown, and color infusing her face once more. The vines wrapped around her recede back into the Earth, and Ceres stands up. Her gaze drops to Alder, whose body still lies motionless on the ground, before turning to look at Raelle. 

The moment their eyes lock on each other, Raelle feels everything bursting at the seams. Ceres cups Raelle by cheek, bringing her in for a kiss, sealing their lips tightly together. Raelle relishes the coldness of Ceres’s lips against hers, the coldness of her palm on Raelle’s cheek. 

_ I missed you _ , Ceres speaks through their unbreakable bond, not once breaking the kiss. Her arms wind tightly around Raelle’s waist, and Raelle doesn’t even feel the slightest bit guilty that they’re in front of their friends and sergeant, because  _ fuck, _ Ceres is back in her arms and she feels so  _ alive.  _

When they part, Raelle keeps close, whispering onto Ceres’s lips, “Don’t fucking die on me again.” 

Ceres snorts quietly, before kissing Raelle again. 

“ _ Oooooo _ kay, wrap it up,” Abigail says. 

_ Her and Libba are a thing now, don’t get jealous, _ Raelle says down the bond, and Ceres looks shocked to hear it, before she’s grinning. 

“And, thanks to you, the Biddies are young again,” Anacostia says, jerking her head back to where the biddies are smiling gratefully. Anacostia grunts as she hauls Izadora off of the ground, the Necro’s eyes beginning to flutter as she stirs back into consciousness. 

_ One moment, _ Ceres says. 

She goes over to Izadora, and slings a punch right across Izadora’s face that knocks her out again. Anacostia barely stifles a snort, whereas Raelle just laughs. 

_ Got what she deserves, _ Ceres says, and a part of Raelle remains astounded that they no longer have to touch to hear each other. 

“And the General?” Tally asks. All eyes fall to Ceres, who inhales and shakes her head. 

“Karma’s a bitch,” Raelle whispers. 

“Well then,” Anacostia sighs. “We should head back, break the news.” 

Raelle grabs Ceres’s hand, and their hands stay linked as the group navigates through the thickness of the forest back to Fort Salem. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! from now on, the chapters might not be as well beta'd as you're used to them being, due to my co-author jess being busy with work and life. I'll do my best to make sure it's all nice and clean, but there might be a mistake every now and then!


	14. drunk on the taste of gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the unit celebrates. ceres and raelle spend their downtime wisely.

“Our nation mourns the loss of one of our greatest heroes,” President Wade speaks elegantly on the TV screen. “General Sarah Alder will go down as one of the finest generals our military has ever known, and her sacrifices and contributions will not be forgotten.” 

It takes every ounce of control in Ceres’s body not to roll her eyes. 

“She was pivotal to the creation of both our military and of this great nation, and she will be remembered,” President Wade says, but even she looks like she’s having a hard time believing that. “But, despite our loss, we must move forward, our military must remain strong. And to that end, I am proud to announce that General Petra Bellweather will fill the position of General of the United States Army.” 

The cacophony of dozens of pairs of feet stomping echoes in the common room in Circe Barracks. Abigail holds her head up, looking as proud as ever, while numerous girls clap her on the back. Though the death of Alder hangs over everyone’s head, the fervor over her replacement quickly elevates the mood. Petra comes onto the screen to give a brief speech, but Ceres has zoned out, mindlessly rubbing her hand across her chest, over her scar. 

_ Hey, you good?  _ Raelle’s voice calls to her mind, and Ceres blinks. Is this what it feels like to have someone else’s voice in your head? Ceres glances at the blonde sitting next to her and smiles. 

_ Lingering pains. They’ll go away,  _ Ceres reassures her girlfriend. 

_ If you need to see Colonel Wick, you should, _ Raelle says, then she blinks.  _ Wait, nevermind.  _

Ceres has to cover up a snort. She wouldn’t want to look like an asshole during General Bellweather’s speech. 

_ You’re coming to the party in the dorm, right? _

Ceres rolls her eyes at Raelle.  _ Please. I need to drown myself in tequila, ASAP.  _

_ Can dead people even get drunk?  _ And Ceres can hear the teasing tone in the back of her head.

Ridiculous. 

_ If it helps, I’m a lightweight because I have less blood circulation.  _

Raelle’s jaw drops, and Ceres can already see the mischief forming in her eyes. Oh goddess, what has Ceres done?

Before Ceres even realizes it, the speech is over, and various privates and officers gathered in the rec room are congratulating Abigail on her mother’s success. The youngest Bellweather is preening under their attention, and Ceres takes note of the fact that Libba doesn’t even look the slightest bit jealous. 

Huh. She missed a lot when she was dead, apparently. 

Later on, in the Bellweather dorm, Ceres finds herself clutching a red cup in one hand and playing pictionary with the other. 

And by pictionary, Ceres means that she’s drawing on everybody’s backs, leaving it up to the others to guess what the black marks trailing from her fingers depict . 

Ceres draws one ball, then another right next to it on Abigail’s back, the black marks showing clearly in the lighting of the dorm room. Then, she creates one, long, upside down U on top of those two balls. Raelle is snickering, a few drinks already in her system making her more giggly than usual. 

“Eggplant,” Tally just says blankly, and Glory busts out laughing. Libba’s face is red with laughter, and Abigail whirls around. 

“Did you draw a  _ dick _ on my back?!” Abigail screeches, and Ceres makes a gesture to the girls sitting down on the ground, as if to say ‘ _ not me, them’.  _ Abigail is red with fury, silent and stewing, before she’s laughing just as hard as the others. There is a bottle of vodka being passed around, and an empty one has rolled under the bunk, which is more than enough for all six girls to start feeling the effects. 

When the bottle comes Ceres’s way, she slides it to Abigail. 

Raelle’s face of concern is obvious.  _ Are you okay? _

_ Not drinking too much. Changed my mind,  _ Ceres replies, looking softly at Raelle. 

“Okay!” Libba stands up, swaying a little bit. “I just want to say that I have  _ no _ fucking idea how you came back to life, but that shit is cool as  _ fuck _ .” 

“Everyone knows that. As usual, a Swythe is the last one to know,” Abigail teases, patting her girlfriend’s butt before sitting down on her bed. Libba swats at Abigail, before gesturing to Ceres. 

“And you,” Libba says, pointing. There’s a pause, and Libba is getting misty-eyed. “Thank you for saving my life.” 

Ceres huffs, smiling and opening her arms. One drink is enough to make her feel a bit more open, so when Libba comes crashing in for a hug, Ceres wraps her arms tightly around the Swythe, rocking from side to side. 

“This is just—” Tally hiccups through some tears. “So  _ emotional! _ ” 

“You guys are fucking drunk,” Raelle says, laughing. 

“We’re  _ fine _ , we don’t have training tomorrow. Mandatory break, say what!” Glory cheers, tipping over onto the floor and rolling around, Tally giggling right beside her. 

Ceres lets go of Libba, smiling.  _ No one else I would’ve rather saved than you, Swythe, _ Ceres says, and Libba’s eyes widen. 

“That’s so fucking cool,” Libba whispers. 

“Alright, alright,” Abigail stands up. “Who’s turn is it for pictionary?” 

“Oh! Me! Me!” Tally shoots up before stumbling to the side, pulling the back of her shirt up. Ceres downs the rest of her drink before tossing the cup to the side, already having an idea in her head. She draws a circle, with four dots inside, then beside it, a tree. 

“A button, and a tree?” Glory’s brows are knotted together. 

“Buttonwood!” Abigail and Raelle shout at the same time, before looking at each other and slapping their hands together in a loud high five. Tally’s face burns up when she turns around, and she playfully shoves Ceres. 

As the girls start talking about Gerit and Tally, Ceres glances out the window. Aside from the Bellweather dorm, the grounds of Fort Salem are especially quiet in the wake of Alder’s death. 

Strange how millions upon millions of people will mourn her, not knowing the truth of who she really was. An abuser.

_ For the greater good _ , Ceres reminds herself. If the American people knew what really happened, their faith in the army would be shattered. A balance needs to be maintained. Of course, the select few know— Berryessa, Anacostia, General Bellweather, President Wade, and the Unit. 

Izadora’s been locked away in her own dungeon for crimes of unlawful experiments, so that’s another case shut and done. Ceres thinks it’s a fitting punishment for Alder’s co-conspirator.

Raelle comes up behind Ceres, arms wrapping around Ceres’s stomach and having to stand on her toes to rest her head on Ceres’s shoulder. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Raelle whispers, and Ceres sighs. 

_ I came here to get closure. I never expected to finally get rid of that source of pain.  _

“You did good, Ceres,” Raelle assures, squeezing tightly. A brief pause. “Do you want to head to your room for the night?” 

_ Yeah, I’m ready to be with you, and only you, _ Ceres answers truthfully. Since waking up from death (for a second time, mind you), Ceres has had to deal with a lot. From telling General Bellweather the truth to answering questions from President Wade. Then there was the emergency press conference and Petra’s appointment as General of the military. And finally this party, with pictionary and drinking. 

Not a single moment alone with Raelle, and Ceres is eager to spend some alone time with her. 

“Alright, guys, we’re heading out,” Raelle says, taking Ceres by hand and leading her to the door of the dorm room. 

“Use protection!” Tally calls out after them, and Abigail and Libba are snickering so hard they look like they’re about to pass out. Ceres lets out a small laugh, more a harsh blowing of air, but a laugh nonetheless.

Their hands swing back and forth between them as they walk from Circe Barracks to the Necro dorms, the evening breeze sifting through Ceres’s hair refreshingly. A calmness comes to her. 

They reach Ceres’s dorm room in no time, and Ceres is quick to tug off her jacket and toss it carelessly onto her desk. 

“You know, I’ve never asked, but where’s your witch mark?” Raelle asks, eyebrow quirking up. 

_ On my ass,  _ Ceres replies immediately. 

“You’re kidding?” 

_ Nope, _ Ceres says, and the tone of the conversation shifts as Ceres peels off her tank top, tossing it on the ground. She smiles.  _ Come look for yourself. _

Ceres reaches her hand out, and Raelle takes it. Ceres pulls the blonde closer and kisses her, sliding her hands beneath Raelle’s legs and lifting her up. The blonde wraps her legs around Ceres’s waist without hesitation, raking her fingers through the taller woman’s hair. 

It’s easy to kiss Raelle, Ceres thinks. It feels so easy, and it feels so worth it. 

Funny how hearing Raelle call out to her in Limbo was a driving factor in making her come back to life. The first time around, Ceres was alone. 

The second time, Ceres wasn’t. 

Unknowingly, she had forged a bond with Raelle, stronger than death itself. As Ceres kisses Raelle deeply, leaning her back onto the mattress, she wonders how that bond was made. Ceres hovers over Raelle, one foot on the ground as they kiss languidly, slowly, taking their time. 

Because they have the time in the world. The sun doesn’t rise for another eight hours. 

“Let me—” Raelle wiggles out of her shirt, leaving her in her pants and bra, and Ceres simply stares at the Limbo mark, reaching out to touch it. Raelle smiles faintly. “It hasn’t gone away.” 

It clicks in Ceres’s mind, right then and there. 

_ This is the mark of our bond, _ Ceres says, leaning back with a small smile on her face.  _ Must’ve been made in Limbo.  _

“So what I’m hearing is I’m stuck with you?” Raelle asks, resting on her elbows, the muscles of her abdomen flexing. 

_ Yeah, _ Ceres says, and somewhere deep in her, she likes it. She likes Raelle being marked like that, their bond clearly displayed. Ceres grins, leaning over to kiss Raelle again. Ceres feels particularly possessive as she places her hands on Raelle’s, leaving black marks everywhere they travel. 

They kiss for what feels like hours, and Ceres couldn’t be happier. 

“Take this off,” Raelle mutters as Ceres lavishes kisses against the column of Raelle’s throat. Raelle’s hands are tugging the buckle of Ceres’s belt, pulling it open before unbuttoning Ceres’s pants. “Want—” Raelle whines when Ceres bites lightly. “— to see you.” 

Ceres leans back, her eyes darkening as she takes in the painting that is Raelle. Black marks trail from her stomach, to her shoulders, to her neck. Mindlessly, Ceres pulls off her belt and pants, pushing them to the side. 

The breathy inhale that Raelle makes upon seeing Ceres is like music. Ceres reaches over her head, stripping her bra off. 

The scar is bold in the light of the room. Curved and twisted, it’s a solemn reminder of her death. It’s raised pink skin that looks angry, and Ceres knows it’ll never go away. 

Raelle’s fingers touch it gently, and Ceres feels herself melting from the inside out. Raelle sits up, and Ceres shifts to straddle Raelle’s waist. Ceres lets out a noise, her hands falling to Raelle’s shoulders as the blonde kisses every inch of the scar on her sternum. 

When Raelle looks up at her, Ceres feels like the sun. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Raelle whispers, resting her forehead against the scar. “I want you to do something.” 

_ Yeah? _ Ceres asks, ignoring the heat simmering down low in her stomach. 

“Choke me.” 

Ceres nearly falls off the bed, but she manages to stay upright. She shoots an incredulous look at Raelle, who merely lays back and raises her arms above her head. Ceres’s mind goes whirling, before she settles on one conclusion. Raelle’s giving Ceres control. 

_ Are you sure? _ Ceres asks. This is the cusp, the last step before diving forward into uncharted territory. 

“Please,” Raelle whispers, her face flushed with heat. “I need you.” 

Something about those words makes Ceres feel like molten lava, as she smoothes her hand across Raelle’s chest. She’s quick to tug Raelle’s bra off, letting it join the heap of other clothes on the floor. With one hand, she holds Raelle’s, and with the other, she lets it drift to the base of Raelle’s neck. 

_ Tell me when to stop, okay?  _ Ceres emphasizes, and Raelle nods. A benefit of not having to use your voice to speak through the bond comes in handy, sometimes. 

Raelle squirms beneath her, her legs wrapping around Ceres’s waist and pulling them closer together. Ceres’s fingers press into Raelle’s neck gently at first, and a low sigh escapes Raelle’s lips as she closes her eyes, basically melting into the bed. 

_ Harder, _ Raelle whispers into Ceres’s mind. 

There’s a feeling of possessiveness that curls into Ceres, as she squeezes ever so slightly harder until a small moan comes from Raelle. Ceres can feel the vibrations right under her palm. 

Ceres shifts until she can move her other hand down to Raelle’s underwear, and she watches Raelle fall apart. 

Later, Ceres is spooning Raelle, tracing all of the lines of the marks with her knuckle. Raelle is covered in them from head to toe now. Ceres knows most of them will be gone by the morning, but it leaves her breathless to see Raelle marked like that, marked as  _ hers.  _

“Take me to Limbo,” Raelle whispers, and Ceres simply reaches over her to the desk, taking the cuffs from the drawer. Ceres cuffs herself to the bed, while Raelle secures the other pair of cuffs around her wrist and Ceres’s wrist. 

Falling back into Limbo has never felt so easy. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait everyone! as always, beta'd by jess!


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